You Asked for Perfect(29)

“Wow,” Rasha says sarcastically. “Thanks for the vote of confidence in the show.”

“It’s a vote of confidence in you,” he responds. “I know you didn’t produce any of those segments.”

“You know what would be an interesting episode? Talking about your photography!”

Amir’s smile falters, but he shifts and says, “Speaking of photography, I’m heading to a showing near campus, at Elaine’s, if anyone would like to join me.”

“Hmm, what do y’all think?” Sook asks.

“Well,” Rasha says, “I don’t drink, but these places tend to have free wine and no hesitation to serve minors.”

“Free wine? Oh, we’re definitely in,” Malka says.

“You interested, Ariel?” Amir asks. He reaches up to scratch his neck, and his shirt rises, revealing a bit of his stomach. Brown skin and a dusting of fine hairs.

I swallow hard. “Sure. I’m in.”

*

“It’s weird to drink wine without praying first,” I murmur to Malka. We’re standing in front of a giant photograph on canvas. It’s a simple picture, a field with a glimpse of a small hand and a girl’s dress on the side, just out of the camera’s focus. It gives me this strange urge to run after her and see what she’s chasing out of frame.

Malka laughs. “Yeah, getting drunk the first time on something other than Manischewitz was also weird, but don’t worry”—she pats my arm—“you’ll adjust.”

We’re a couple miles from campus at Elaine’s. I understand why Amir loves this place. The rooms are minimal but warm, the crowd is quiet but friendly, and acoustic guitar plays from hidden speakers. The song playing now sounds like a stripped-down version of “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

All five of us carpooled here from the studio. If you’d asked me a month ago who I’d be hanging out with on a Friday night and what I’d be doing with them, this would not have been my answer. I wonder if this is what college is like, going with the flow, always saying yes because who really cares about that waiting pile of homework. It’s remarkable, the possibility in even one free Friday.

Amir is working his way around the room, shaking hands and talking with people. He’s comfortable here, assured. People seem to gravitate toward him.

I try not to focus on each guy who shakes his hand or claps him on the back. I wonder if Jacob the twenty-two-year-old photographer is around.

“You’re staring again,” Malka whispers.

“Hmm?” I go to take a sip of my wine, but the little cup is empty. “Want some more? I need to, um, cleanse my palate before the next photo.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Malka says.

“It’s definitely not.”

We grab more wine anyway and then move onto the next photo. And the next after that. After a bit, Malka says to take my time. There’s a little pocket park next to the gallery, and she’s going to hang there with Rasha and Sook.

I trail around the room on my own, enjoying wine that doesn’t taste like grape juice and art that isn’t asking anything of me. There’s a spotlight section, a single wall for a new artist. Her work complements the rest of the gallery well. I settle in front of a photo of a night sky. A silhouette blurs at the bottom of the frame, perhaps someone dancing under the stars. “This is one of my favorites,” a familiar voice says.

Spearmint and basil.

I glance at Amir. He’s standing close to me, staring at the photo. “It’s nice,” I say. “It makes me feel content.”

“At ease. Too many photos are dark, depressing. As if only serious subjects make good art. I think it’s harder to make someone happy than make them sad.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I guess that’s true.”

“C’mon.” His hand brushes against my arm. “I want to show you a few more.”

I’m glad the girls are gone. Everything about this moment feels too indulgent to share. We wander around the gallery together. My skin tingles. I want to take his hand.

He’s wearing a cardigan over a T-shirt. He pulls the combo off well—he looks hot. But I narrow my eyes at his Hufflepuff shirt.

“I thought you were a Ravenclaw,” I say.

“Observant.” He grins. “I’m a Ravenpuff, so I wear both.”

I shake my head. “I love Harry Potter, but I haven’t put that much thought into my house.”

“Hmm, I’d say you’re a Gryffinclaw.”

“I’ll get my two shirts.” I sip the last of my wine. “How often do you come to these shows?”

We’re now standing in a dark corner of the exhibit. A single light shines on a photo of a moth hovering above a lantern. Our shoulders are close, touching in the most imperceptible way. I swear he leans toward me. I swallow, not wanting to move and break the moment. “Not as much as I’d like,” he says. “But at least a couple of times a month.”

“Do you go alone or with a friend or a…boyfriend?” I almost cough out the last word.

“No boyfriend. I usually go alone and run into friends.” He glances at me, smiling. “But I’m enjoying the company tonight.”

*

The scent of the food arrives before the plates. My mouth waters. The Thai restaurant is small and dark. We’re all squeezed into a booth in the back. A few tea lights illuminate the lacquered black table. I’m in the far corner with Amir next to me. Rasha and Malka are across from us, and Sook sits at the head of the table. Rasha told us she comes here at least once a week.