Page 6 of The Embrace of Evergreen
“What do you feel?”
It’s not the question I expect. Shouldn’t she ask which one I want to buy?
“I’m…I’m not sure.” I shake my head softly.
“Not enough or too much?”
My lips twitch up into a surprised attempt at a smile. “Too much, I think.”
She doesn’t say another word as she turns her gaze away from mine and stares at the fragile glass with me for a long while. I don’t think it’s a sales tactic; I think she’s lost in her own world just as I am.
“How much?” I nod, indicating a piece standing on its own black pedestal at the far left of the grouping. A small brass nameplate sits at its base with only the name Xavier Prescott written in elegant script. Unlike some of the other paintings and sculptures, these don’t have titles.
She twitches briefly as she pulls her attention away from wherever she’d gone in her own mind and settles back into her body.
“$650.”
There is no long-winded explanation as to why the piece is worth that amount. No attempt to convince me that the artist is a well-known expert or the next up-and-coming master of their trade. No telling me that the fragile work is a steal at that price. There is no haggling nor any indication that such a thing would be welcome or acceptable.
I simply nod, and she understands.
“I’ll be sad to see it go.” She smiles softly and runs her fingertips along its sharp edges before lifting it carefully.
I follow her downstairs wordlessly, still lost in the feel of the gallery and the trance that settled over me as I stared and the swirling glass pulled me into my own emotional abyss. Somehow, the piece already feels like mine, and her fingers delicately caressing the smooth surface as she settles it on a counter tucked into the corner of the main floor’s entry room feels wrong. It’s glass. It’s athing, not a person or pet. I don’t understand why I feel possessive of it at all, let alone before I’ve even taken it home. I’m not a material person. When I left home just after I turned eighteen, I took a single duffle bag of clothes with me, and I’ve never once felt like I made a mistake in doing so. I’m probably just worn out from the move.
She presses foam into the bottom of a box, and I watch in wonder as she heats it with what looks like a small hair dryer before carefully settling the sculpture on top and pressing gently. It sinks into the foam, the material shifting to safely hug the elegant curves and angles. She repeats the process with another piece of foam and closes the box’s lid. When the glass is obscured completely by the packaging, something in my chest shifts slightly. I hadn’t even realized how tightly the churning cloud of emotions in my chest had me clenched up, and for a moment, I wonder if taking the piece homewith me is really a good idea if looking at it makes me feel so much that I don’t quite understand. Yet the thought of leaving it behind seems unfathomable.
The woman’s fingers work quickly as I’m sorting through my internal crisis, winding thin, silken rope around the box in a way that cradles it completely and leaves a small set of handles at the top. When I take the box gently from the counter after paying and step back onto the sidewalk, I’m momentarily disoriented. The harsh heat and bright sun are a startling contrast to the studio’s cool, comforting interior. The cacophony of cars and bikes and feet and birds and conversations is overwhelming after the hours I’ve spent lost in my own mind. I clutch the rope handles tightly, their silken touch and the weight of the box somehow grounding me even as a storm of emotion rises in my throat as I remember what it felt like to stare at the fragile glass inside the inconspicuous box. It’s more than I’ve allowed myself to feel in a very long time.
Blue
Thank the gods that I sold a piece at the gallery this week. I make enough money waiting tables to pay my rent and buy groceries without having to stick to a tight budget, but once in a while, it’s nice to get to the end of the month without feeling like having an extra drink during Friday Night Friends Date will break the bank. As grateful as I am, I find that I can’t stop wondering who bought it. I try not to become overly attached to the pieces I exhibit at the gallery; I know they’re not really mine once I put them on display. Someone is going to buy them and take them home, and I’ll never know where they end up. Still, they’re tiny pieces of my soul, and I worry that they won’t be cared for. What if someone buys one as a gift, and the recipient hates it? Will it end up at some thrift shop? What if someone having an extremely bad day walks into the gallery and thinks that buying some glass to smash into smithereens is the best way to work through their anger? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. If that were to happen, it would still have served a purpose. In the end, it is just a piece of glass, but I like to think that wherever they end up, they’re enjoyed. I like to think they make someone somewhere feel…something.
“You’re looking way too serious for Friday night karaoke, hun.” Evie nudges my shoulder with hers as she slips into the booth next to me.
Her gentle prodding is enough to pull me from my introspection, and I grin at her and finish my drink in one harsh shot. Good whiskey is made for sipping, not shooting, but she’s right - tonight is for having fun. I’ve been a bit off my game lately, and I can’t figure out why. Normally, my darker moods only peek out when I’m lost inside my head, playing with fire and glass and emotion at the shop, but there have been moments over the past couple of months where I’ve felt almost…empty. Nothing is really wrong; the world just seems a tad less colorful than it usually does, and no matter how hard I examine my life and myself, I can’t come up with an explanation.
“Momentary lapse, I assure you.” I grin broadly as I shake off the whiskey’s burn.
“So…” Evie leans her head onto my shoulder and moves the conversation forward. She either believes my statement, or she doesn’t want to get drawn into a discussion about the meaning of life on party night. I can’t say I blame her. “Who are you taking home tonight?”
A laugh bubbles up at how well my friends know me. It’s not exactly a secret that our Friday Night FriendDates are my hunting ground, but I like to believe they know that because they pay attention. I like feeling that I matter enough for them to take an interest in my life, even if they’re really just curious about who might be my type this weekend. In general, I don’t really have a specific type, so I understand their curiosity. I tend to prefer slightly larger men to slightly smaller ones for the most part, but I don’t exactly have a checklist of criteria for my hookups. I’m not overly particular once we get to the fun stuff either. While I have preferences, as everyone does, I’m usually happy to just go with the flow and enjoy whatever acts my partner wants to engage in. I’m comfortable taking control if that’s what they want; I just don’t feel the need to make that choice for us. I’m a versatile guy with no particular kinks, and I’m open enough to try just about anything once or twice. It makes enjoying myself easier. For most people, there is a nervous energy that comes with a one-time hookup or the first time with a new partner. It’s so easy to fall into the trap of trying to both please the other person and still get what you need out of the experience that often, neither person ends up having a good time. Because I truly don’t have a lot of preferences, it takes the pressure off, and it’s rare that I don’t enjoy my sexual encounters.
“Hmmmm…” I drag the sound out, dramatically tapping a finger on my lips as I gaze around the karaoke bar. “Not sure yet.”
“Oooo, how about that gorgeous fuzzy bear in the corner?” Her words are slightly slurred, and she’s added at least an extra fourz’s to fuzzy.
I follow her gaze and take a moment to examine the man she’s less than covertly pointing at. I have to admit, not for the first time, that Evie has good taste. The idea of letting the stranger take me home and rail me for a few hours is appealing, but for some reason, it just isn’t appealing enough. Fortunately, I’m saved from having to come up with an explanation as to why he isn’t what I’m feeling tonight when a slightly younger man steps into his side, and the bear’s arm wraps around the younger man’s shoulders. Their stance is one of comfort and familiarity, and something in my chest aches at the scene. Clearly, it’s time for another whiskey.
“Looks like he already has plans. I’m going to keep looking on my way to the bar for a refill. You want anything?” I ask as I slip out of the booth.
“Nope, I’m good.” She grins and wiggles her half-full glass of frozen purple monstrosity.
I take my time on my journey to the bar, diligently leering at every man in the place as I try to convince myself each time my gaze lingers on strong jawlines or thick thighs or long, slim fingers that I want the person attached to them to take me home and touch me. Try as I might, I just can’t seem to picture any of these strangers’ hands on my skin. It’s a slightly upsetting realization for a man as in love with sex as I am.
Even though I’m starting to recognize that I’m likely not interested in spending the night with anyone, I don’t even flinch when strong arms wrap around mybelly, and a hard, sweaty body presses up against my back. Before the fingertips even brushed my skin, I noticed the scent of pineapple and coconut lotion mixed with a trace of high-end cigar smoke. There is no way that anyone else in this bar smells like Gabriel. Hell, he doesn’t even actually smoke; he just lights the cigars for a few moments and then puts them out as if they’re nothing more than strange and expensive incense. Every time I’ve asked him about it, he’s just shrugged and said he likes the scent.
“I require more drinks.” He pouts with his jaw resting on my shoulder.
