The Astonishing Color of After(80)

“True,” I said.

Axel pushed a button, and the little red lights on the keyboard died. He shoved my feet aside and sank into the couch next to me. “I thought Nagori just wanted you to expand on the stuff you’ve already shown him.”

I tried to forget about the warmth of his hands over my socked feet. I loved how familiar the gesture was, loved that he was comfortable enough to just reach out and touch.

I reminded myself that the touch probably meant very little to him. In fact, it definitely meant absolutely nothing.

“Yeah, but what does expand on even mean?” I threw out air quotes with my fingers. “It’s not like a pet cow that I just need to fatten up for the state fair.”

“What if you tried working in more than just charcoal?”

I lifted my head and glared at him. “You know how I feel about that. I’m not practiced enough. I’ll botch it.”

“Pretend you’re a kid again and you don’t even know what’s good. Just try for the sake of trying. For the sake of having fun.”

I shook my head. “I’m sticking to charcoal.”





It took me another week to finally get (A) an initial sketch that sucked slightly less, (B) brave enough to show it to Nagori.

Unintelligible sounds crawled out from his mouth. “Mmm.” He tilted his head. “Hummm.”

Maybe he was trying to commune with the zombie spirits who haunted the art room.

Or maybe he just had no idea what to make of the picture I was showing him.

My fingers twisted together under the table. “It’s supposed to be more abstract.” I could see Axel hovering by the door outside the classroom. I’d made him promise to wait in the hall until I was done.

“It’s like matryoshka,” said Nagori.

“Like what?”

“Russian nesting dolls. You’ve seen them, I’m sure. They’re painted with faces on the outside, and hollow on the inside to hold increasingly smaller—”

“Ah, right. Got it.”

“It’s a beautiful concept,” he said. “The image replicating itself and changing subtly each time.”

“But?” I could hear the word dangling in the air between us and it was pissing me off. My knee jiggled hard, like it was winding up a generator and prepping for takeoff. I pressed a firm palm down on the leg to stop it.

“But… I think the piece lacks emotion.”

I swallowed hard. “Emotion,” I repeated.

Axel was peeking through the window again. I shot him a glare and turned my attention back to the drawing.

“That’s what’s so strong about these other works you’ve been doing, Leigh,” said Nagori. “The nostalgia, the sadness. I want to feel… something. Right now when I look at this, all I feel is, huh, cool philosophy. But nothing stirs here—” He placed a hand over his sternum. “You see what I mean?”

I tried to swallow again, but my throat was dry enough to be splintered apart and used for kindling. “Yes. I see. I think.”

“It really is a great concept. Don’t scrap the idea—just try again. See if you can capture… more.”

“More,” I said, because I was turning into a goddamn echo machine.

“Right,” said Nagori. “These links—that is a bracelet, yes? What made you want to draw it? Find the emotion.”





I spent the weekend in Axel’s basement with all my supplies, trying to find the emotion. The lighting wasn’t great, but Mom was having one of her episodes. The slightest noise—even the mere turning of a sketchbook page or the light scritch-scratch of my pencil—would set off her temper.

“I can’t think with your noisy,” she would say in a mean voice.

Or, “Drawing supposed to be quiet activity, Leigh.”

Or, “You turn the page so loud!”

It was better to escape, and Axel’s made for the perfect haven.

I was redoing the picture I’d shown Nagori. It felt easier to start over from scratch, so all I had was a fresh sheet with light pencil outlining what I wanted.

Emotion, I scoffed. This was surrealism. What did he mean, emotion? This was just supposed to be about the fantastical merging with reality.

Axel sat in front of his keyboard with most of his back to me. Giant headphones hugged his ears, but I could see enough of his profile to tell that his eyes were closed. He curved in toward the keys, shoulders rounding as if to form a hollow in which he could collect the music.

I turned to a fresh page. My hand was moving fast, drawing Axel, doing bold and geometric lines for the keyboard, getting the sound and movement out in graphite.

I hadn’t done anything realistic in a long while. I sank into the meditation as my pencil explored his body. The broad shoulders. The graceful elbows turning as his hands mapped the terrain of his piece. He was self-taught, but he looked beautiful and confident when he played. My mother repeatedly offered to teach him, but he refused to take a free lesson. I guess it felt too much like charity.

The sound of keys stopped and Axel swung around. I looked up at him, my hand hovering above the page.

“What?” he said.

“What?” I felt some strange and heated mix of guilt and embarrassment, like he’d caught me doing something bad.