Page 6 of For the Love of Art

“Hi, Mrs. Li.” I waved at her as I pulled out my keys.

Her warm, dark eyes turned up as she saw me.

“Hello, Mrs. Watts.”

The name made my blood run cold.

Mrs. Li was my landlord, and since I was only separated, I hadn’t changed my name back to Diaz yet. The paperwork was archaic and didn’t have a ‘separated’ option, so I marked myself married, explaining my situation. Mrs. Li seemed to think it meant there was a chance we’d get back together, and since moving in, I didn’t feel emotionally prepared to have the full conversation with her. Instead, I dealt with my stomach dropping and the dam of tears I held in until I showered at night every time we crossed paths and she said my married name.

I offered a half-hearted smile as I pushed open the door to my apartment and made my way up the grungy carpeted stairs. I unlocked a second door leading to the small, dimly lit apartment I called home. I tossed the magazine, purse, and keys onto the coffee table. An old Chinese food box, not Mrs. Li’s Chinese food, and I prayed she never found out, fell onto the floor. I stepped over it to get to my stove. I took a box of matches from the window sill above my sink. I lit an element before setting a kettle on top of it.

I sighed as I looked out the smudged window, pulling a tea bag out of a canister. People busily made their way up and down the street. A car honked impatiently as traffic sat at a standstill while an old woman didn’t quite make it across the road before the light turned. It was the sounds and sights of a city I knew well, and yet, in this tiny little corner of Lower Manhattan, I felt like I was in a foreign country.

The kettle began to scream. I turned off the burner and poured the hot water into a mug with the tea bag before finding my way to my couch. I snuggled into the soft furniture’s cozy embrace, sipping my tea. My eyes scanned the mess scattered across my coffee table, vowing that I would clean it up… tomorrow, maybe. When New York Art Life came into view, I stopped. Licking my lips, I leaned forward and picked it up, opening the article on Nathan Manning.

I quickly read through the interview, scoffing as I read his response to whether or not he was a heartbreaker: “I’ve had many relationships but have yet to meet that special someone.” I shook my head, then muttered, “You aren’t interested in finding that special someone.”

I looked beside me, and the emptiness of the ripped plaid couch Mrs. Li had put in this apartment made me sad. This article was exactly the kind of thing Don and I would laugh about. Instead, I was muttering to myself while drinking off-brand tea.

A fuzzy grey tail flicked my face. I reached behind me to pet the warm creature.

“Hi, Hamburger,” I said lovingly as the smoky grey cat stepped down into my lap.

I rubbed between his ears, and he began to purr rhythmically.

“Just you and me, huh?”

I kissed his fuzzy head.

I looked in the mirror and scrunched my face at my plain appearance. My long chestnut hair refused to cooperate, and I looked more like a soccer mom in my coral tee and high-waist jeans than a newly single woman.

“Whatever,” I said to my reflection.

What did it matter? It’s not like I was going out to meet a man.

I grabbed my purse and crossed it over my shoulder before leaving my apartment. The sun hit hard as I stepped onto the bustling sidewalk, so I pulled my sunglasses down from the to p of my head. I pulled my phone out to check I knew where I was going.

I wasn’t going to meet a man per se. I was going to a certain Manning’s art gallery.

When I made it to the right block, I looked around.

“I know I’m on the right block,” I said to myself as I pulled my phone out again.

I took one more look up and down the street, and then I saw the gold letters: Manning Art Gallery.

My heart began to pound as my feet moved toward the building. I opened the mammoth door and entered into the large space, grateful for the air conditioning. My Converse slapped against the marble floor as I made my way to a small white desk where a woman with mousey blonde hair and chic circular gold wire-rimmed glasses sat, nodding her head intently at another woman with raven colored hair.

“Hi? Hello?” I gave an awkward wave when the raven haired woman looked at me. “Are you open to the public?”

The raven haired woman’s crimson lips twitched as if she were suppressing a laugh. “Of course we are.” I realized how silly my question was as I looked around at the walls filled with artwork. “Feel free to look around. If you need anything, I’m Maggie, the Curator, and this is our art dealer, Dori.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks.”

I stepped away from the desk, and the two fell back into their hushed conversation.

A piece of art immediately caught my eye, and I gravitated toward it. I examined the bold oranges and reds that danced along the canvas, digging my teeth into my lower lip. I wanted to reach out to touch it and feel the textures.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” a male voice caused me to jump.

I slowly turned my head to see grey eyes fixated on me.

Nathan Manning.