Page 18 of It Hurts Me
“I appreciate art. And I’ve always wanted to be an artist myself.”
“Then be an artist,” he said simply.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I disagree,” he said. “It’s either something you are or you aren’t. So, which is it?”
“I paint sometimes, but…”
He gave me a moment to finish, and when I didn’t, he pressed me. “But what?”
“It’s just not good enough.” My own inadequacy stared me right in the face every time I looked at the canvas. When I set out to create something, it turned into something completely different…and not in a good way.
“Says who?” He grabbed his glass and took a drink. “Art is subjective. Those paintings I bought. How long did they sit in your basement before I came along?”
“I-I don’t know.” They had all come at different times, sold to us by different dealers, sometimes donated as part of an estate. “A couple years, I guess.”
“Every piece of art is meant for a different buyer. You just have to find yours.” He took another drink.
I noticed the waitress never came to take our order. She attended the tables around us but didn’t disturb us, like she was waiting for him to specifically call her over. “You haven’t seen my artwork?—”
“Then show me.”
The only person I showed my work to was Bolton, and he didn’t seem that interested in it. He wasn’t the kind of man who cared about art or décor or design. He just cared about money, so I tried not to take his lack of interest personally. “It doesn’t look anything like the paintings you bought.”
“Then what do they look like?”
“Hard to describe,” I said. “I guess they’re moments…”
He cocked his head slightly.
“Like when you take a candid photo of someone or see a group of friends talking across the bar or when you see a couple talking intensely at a restaurant, and you wonder what all those moments mean. Are they good moments? Are they bad moments? Or are they the last moment those two will ever share?”
He didn’t blink as he listened to me.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“You explained it perfectly. I’d love to see one of your paintings if you’re ever brave enough to show me.”
Heat moved down my throat and mimicked the scotch I’d stopped drinking. My eyes moved to the menu even though I didn’t have much of an appetite. There were a lot of good things on there, though. “What do you get?”
“Bistecca alla fiorentina. But I doubt that’s something you’d order.”
“I drink scotch. Maybe I like steak too.”
A subtle smile moved over his lips. “Do you?”
“I do, but I’m just not that hungry right now,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get a salad.”
His grin widened before he took a drink.
“What?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Nothing.”
“What?” I repeated.
“I was right,” he said. “That’s what.” He made a slight gesture, and the waitress immediately came over. He asked for another drink because he’d already finished.