Not Today, But Someday(23)

“You went from this portrait thing, to that?” she asks, seemingly surprised.

“To what? The empty, ugly, angry thing?” I quote her words back to her.

“You know I didn’t mean it was ugly, right?” She crosses the room quickly. “I meant dark, and dire and sad. But I think it’s incredible.”

“Stop, I’m messing with you.” Her posture loses some of its tension. “And yes. Somewhere along the way, I began to see the world differently.”

“You’re a prodigy?”

“No.” I’d never liked that word. “I just found my calling at a young age.”

“Some people spend their whole lives searching for this, you know? I mean, is this something you love to do?”

“No,” I tell her. “It’s something I have to do. It’s the only way I feel alive. It’s the only way I can process the world around me.”

“Prodigy,” she whispers again.

“Tragedy,” I counter. She squints her eyes at me. “It’s how I cope. Some people need medicine. Some people need to see a shrink every week. Some people drink,” I say softly, understanding that was my dad’s way to deal with things. “I paint. A prodigy could do that abstract thing at six,” I explain, motioning toward the ugly painting. “I had to live and die first.”

“How are you my age?” she asks.

“What?”

“Everything you say is so thought out and profound.”

“I’m not always like that, either,” I explain. “I’ve just been hyper-focused on the art these past few weeks. I’ve been painting more, reading more, writing more.”

“Why?”

“I have nothing else to distract me.”

“What was distracting you before?” she asks. I like that she picked up on that. I want to tell her things.





CHAPTER 9 - EMI





I watch him curiously as he prepares some paint on his palette. I know he heard my question, but maybe he thinks I’m prying. Have I really only known this guy for less than thirty-six hours? Already, he seems more familiar than any of my friends from back home. It’s easy to talk to him. “Come here,” he says.

I walk the expanse of the room over to him. The outer walls of his art room are complete glass, with roman shades rolled up at the top of most of the windows. It’s pitch black outside, and I know his house is surrounded by woods, but I still wonder if there are people outside watching us.

Assuming he wants me to look at his current painting, I stand next to him. The entire canvas is covered with light greenish-blue paint, with slight hue shifts. It’s nothing compared to all the other work around me. “Just starting?” I ask him.

“I’ve spent six hours on this.”

“Six hours? No offense, but I think I could have finished this in six minutes.”

“Said the girl who doesn’t paint.”

“You don’t have to know how to paint to do that. C’mon, Nate,” I say jovially, praying he won’t be offended.

“It’s not finished, either.”

“Well, I guess that’s good.” He glares at me, but then breaks into a smile. He puts his hands on my shoulders and guides me to a spot on the floor closer to the warm lamp. Did I tell him I was cold? I immediately start to feel the warmth across my skin. Nate puts his hand under my chin and tips my head up. “What are you doing?” I ask him as his eyes study mine. He glances from my stare back to the painting, back and forth.

Finally, I understand what he’s doing. “Stumped?” I ask him playfully, blinking my eyes quickly.

“I am!” he admits, breaking his silence with frustration. “I have never seen that color before. I’m way off,” he says with a laugh. “And I’m good at this sort of thing. I can normally see a color and mix it by memory– and get pretty damn close – but I swear your eyes are never the same color.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Well, then it’s a color I can’t comprehend. Yet.” His gaze is intense and focused, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d brace myself for my first kiss. No, I’d push him away. I don’t want that. But his eyes aren’t smitten, or even gentle or loving, they’re evaluating the tones and shades like only a true artist can. “But, damn it, I will.”

I’m fascinated by his persistence. “Why do you care?”

“To capture the essence of that... it would be, like... finding a giant squid. You know no one’s ever seen one alive? It’s like they’re mythological.”

I start laughing hard. “The essence,” I tease him. “They’re just eyes.”

“It’s the color,” he explains. “It’s unnatural. That’s the thing,” he starts, and I can tell by his wild eyes that his mind is working quickly now. “I’m sitting here mixing in colors that I’d traditionally see in people’s eyes, but maybe I need to branch out. Maybe I’m missing something.” He shuffles pigments around on his workbench until he settles on something that looks silvery, and pearlescent. “Like this,” he says.

“That’s creepy.”

“It’s not normal,” he agrees. “But I think... maybe... if I could just see your eyes in the natural light, it might help me out. I’ve never seen your eyes in the sunlight.” He says, as if he’s just discovered the thing that had been alluding him. “I won’t mix this tonight,” he finishes, setting the color back down. He inhales slowly, as if trying to regulate his breathing. His cheeks flush pink, but it’s barely noticeable on his tanned skin. If we hadn’t been under this lamp, I probably would never have seen it.