Not Today, But Someday(35)

“Okay, so now I’ll admit you’re an artist. I wasn’t sure until now.”

“You like it?” I nod, still staring at it. “When it’s done, I’ll make copies of it to reduce the size, and then draw over each letter with ink pens.”

“You’ll draw over those letters...” I can’t imagine how many hours that would take.

“Yeah.”

“How tedious is that?”

“A little,” she says, “but I like it. I like the precision. I like the finished piece.”

“It seems so confining. I couldn’t do that.”

“Well,” she says, “I couldn’t do that.” She nods at my painting. “That is beautiful, Nate.”

“You like it?”

“I love it. Who knew there were that many shades of red? And, like, still... I wouldn’t call a single one of those pink. It’s incredible... how you do that.”

“Thanks. You can have it... when it’s finished, and dry.”

“Really?”

I’ve been thinking about her non-stop since I started this painting. It already belongs to her. It is her. “Yeah, if you really want it.”

“I’d love it.” She looks to be in awe of it, staring at it as I would stare at her, if I could. She puts her hand over her heart. “I love it.” It makes me euphoric to know that I am the cause of that expression on her face. That gentle smile. That look of wonder. She is so beautiful.

I think about what I’ve just promised her. This painting that represents her, and the feelings she’s stirring up inside of me. This painting that I want to possess as my own. I’ve just given it to her, with no objection. It’s as if I know that I can’t have her. But I want her. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want her.





After school, I have a smoke behind the school with my eyes on the parking lot. I finally see Emi and Chris, walking to his car. I’d hoped to see her smiling again. I’d hoped that she’d still be thinking of me, like I have been of her, but she’s just biting her lip... silent... following a few steps behind her brother.

I drive the speed limit all the way home, and even wave to the cop who’d been sitting on the side of the road, radar gun in hand. Mom isn’t there when I get home. She has left a note, letting me know they had a fundraiser and wouldn’t be home until late. She left me instructions on how to heat up the eggplant parmesan Elsa had prepared earlier in the day. Not having eaten lunch, I make an early dinner so I can spend the rest of the evening in the art room. I can turn the music up as loud as I want, broadcasting to all the speakers in the room, and hopefully get all of this pent-up discontent out of my system and onto canvas, for good. It was producing some amazing artwork, but it was inhibiting my sleep, my thoughts... it’s been consuming me for days.

After I eat, I head up to the third floor and open two of the french doors. Maybe the cold air will help, too. I change into one of the paint-stained t-shirts that I keep in a bureau, throwing the shirt I’d warn to school into the corner. I hadn’t had a chance to reorganize my CDs yet, but it was easy to tell which pile contained the music that Emi liked. I decide on one from that pile– Nine Inch Nails– feeling that it suited my mood perfectly. I skip through Closer the first time through, not knowing if I can keep myself from abandoning the painting and heading down to my bedroom. Maybe I just should. What the f*ck am I waiting for?

I stare at the painting in front of me and I have my answer. I’d mixed the pearl-color with the blue, green and white I’d already created and think it’s pretty close. Two strokes into it, I angle the canvas toward one of the open doors so it can bask in the sunlight. Small flecks from the added paint reflect the light, and I remember how Emi’s eyes had glistened as she gazed into the sun’s rays the day before. It’s definitely close. I keep painting.

What I do isn’t for Emi, though. I don’t think it is, anyway. The truth is, I’ve never been so inspired as I’ve been the past few days. Maybe it’s her influence, her energy. Whatever it is, I like what I’m doing. I can recognize that each painting is better than the last, and I’m afraid that changing any of my routine will break the spell... will hinder me from doing this.

I keep painting.

As I start to lose the sun, I abandon that painting once more. It needs the brightness of daylight. I wonder if she’ll come over after school one day this week so I can study those eyes a little more. So I can finally perfect this color and paint something masterful with it.

Finding a different painting I’d started yesterday, I mix some colors and start adding details with a small brush. The song I’d been avoiding comes on again, the CD on a continuous loop. I try to paint through it. A part of me wants to skip it again, but another part, a feral part that needs release, forces me to listen to it. To every beat, rhythm, lyric, until I’m pretty sure I’m going mad. I drop my paintbrush on the drop cloth and go downstairs to my bedroom.

Unable to avoid these feelings any longer, I pick up the phone and the slip of paper with her number on it. I hesitate, but only for a second. I need this.

“Hey, it’s Nate,” I tell her, and I’m sure she can hear the urgency in my voice.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Are you alone?”