“That’s a good thing?”
Yeah.” I smile. “It feels free. Like the artist knew when to stop.”
He nods, studying it like he’s trying to see what I see. “That’s hard.”
“What is?”
“Stopping before you ruin the thing that’s already working.”
I look over at him.
His eyes stay on the painting, but his voice has gone quieter.
“It makes sense that you’d notice that,” he says. “You always knew how to leave space for something to breathe.”
I swallow and look back at the painting before my face gives me away.
“I didn’t always feel like you saw that.”
He nods once. “I didn’t always know how to.”
The vendor walks over then, an older woman with silver locs and bright orange earrings. “That piece was painted by my niece. She calls itResting Women.”
“I love that,” I say.
“She says women need to be painted resting more often. Everybody always wants us working, dancing, cooking, posing. She wanted them doing nothing.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Tell your niece I understand her ministry.”
The woman laughs. “I’ll tell her.”
Javonte looks at me. “Do you want it?”
I look from him to the painting.
Then I reach into my bag and pull out my card. “Yes. I do.”
He watches me pay for it without jumping in, and I feel him beside me the whole time. Not tense or sulking. He’s with me.
The vendor wraps the painting and hands it to me. “Can I carry it?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You may.”
He reaches for the bag, but he waits for me to release it first.
I notice. Of course I notice.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I know you don’t need me to carry it.”
“Then why offer?”
His eyes stay on mine. “Because I want to make things easier for you when you’ll let me.”
We keep walking, stopping at a booth with handmade earrings, another with painted wooden ornaments, and one with rum cake samples that Javonte takes very seriously.
“You don’t have to review every flavor,” I tell him as he tries a third piece.
