“Why then?”
He looks down at his glass. “I think that’s the first time I’ve properly laughed since Em died. It felt…like a relief. I wanted more of it.”
I catch my breath as it occurs to me that getting involved with Cooper—a man who is still dealing with the grief of losing his sister—may not be the most considerate idea I’ve ever had when I’m also going to expire in a couple of days. But then…we barely know each other. He’d probably be a bit sad, but he’s dealt with far worse. And this is all still prettycasual, right? An entirely sex-based dalliance? He’ll be alright. Won’t he?
“I made you laugh that night!” I say proudly, trying to distract myself from my own dark thoughts.
“You did. I’m grateful for it.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I shrug him off, blushing. “Just a natural skill of mine.”
“One of many,” he says, in a voice low enough to send a shiver right through me. Yes. Definitely an entirely sex-based dalliance.
The waitress brings over our starters along with a pot of paint and a paintbrush.
“Now,” she says. “this maylooklike paint, but it is an edible coulis, perfectly prepared to accompany your starter.” She puts a square white plate down in front of me. “You paint the sauce onto your plate, in any way you like. I’m a fan of thick, abstract splotches, some diners prefer a simple ground layer, others a pointillist application, although if you choose that, your food may cool down a little more than we would advise.”
I look at the plate, and at the paint pot and then at the other plate that holds my paté. I look over at Cooper, and he has a similar setup but with a piece of fish, his paint a dubious green colour that the waitress says is made from broccoli.
“But…why?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Excuse me?” The waitress blinks.
“Why did you not pour the sauce on already?”
She gawps at us. “Because the point is to paint it?”
“Yes, but why?” Cooper adds.
The woman shakes her head. “Because the plate is the canvas,” she explains slowly, as if we are dumb.
“No-one else has ever asked you why before?” I ask.
She shakes her head again before backing away, eyeing us curiously.
“Again, sorry.” Cooper laughs. “It had good ratings online, so hopefully the food is actually delicious and we’re just a pair of dickheads who don’t quite get the concept bit of Concept and Caramel.”
“That’s definitely it. I mean, I know for a fact you’re a dickhead.”
I pick up the paint pot and dump its contents over my food. It splodges messily right out to the edges of the plate.
Cooper tuts. “And you call yourself an artist.”
“I’ve never called myself an artist.”
“You should. Those drawings…”
I frown. “I don’t really do that anymore.”
“You don’t like doing it?”
“I love doing it. I just…” I trail off awkwardly. I just what? I got burned in school and gave up? Gave up on the thing I loved more than anything else?
I grab my glass of water and down it.
Cooper smiles. “Well, if you ever have an exhibition, I’ll be first in line to buy a piece.”
He forks some miso cod into his mouth and swallows it. He waits for me to take a bite of my paté, which is claggy, the sauce tasting like actual paint.
