Something.
Hands and mind immobilized, he’d been gawking at his device for a solid three minutes without replying to her. To—that picture.
Focus.
Ethan
I understand. I work on my art under a pseudonym, too.
He didn’t mention her photo. His response pushed it up and out of view in their thread. That was good, because the shadows articulating her collarbones and the divot of her navel had left a vacuum where his brain should be. She likely didn’t want him to respond to it, anyhow. What would he even say? She was sharp and funny and beautiful, and he… wasn’t. Chase would’ve used a more explicit word for him, and he also would’ve known how to use the right words with Forster. Ethan’s own reply was stilted, awkward. If only he could answer her with nibs and ink…
This was supposed to be for my mother.She hadn’t taken the picture for a partner. It hadn’t been meant for him. But she hadn’t snapped it for another man, either.
She.
A new ellipsis blinked onto his phone. Forster was typing again. He watched her work out her answer. His last message hadn’t been a question, so this could be the conclusion of their discussion if she didn’t choose to extend it. He stared, and tried to parse meaning from her pauses, to extract data from the blank screen—because even an incorrect hypothesis was better than the fear that hitched itself to ignorance.
He wasn’t ready for their conversation to end.
He’d enjoyed Forster’s company before he’d known her gender, when she’d just been a stranger with a profound, intimate connection to his art. No, notjust. Theirs was a kinship he’d never expected to share—or had even considered sharing. Not really. Let alone with anyone so innovative and insightful. Someone like…her.
But now?
His phone chirped.
Forster
It’s better to keep our personal and professional lives separate, isn’t it? Especially when they’re in such diametric contrast. Using different names is an easy way to do it.
A question.
A deep inhale unfurled through his lungs and released the tension under his sternum. Dirty socks tossed into the hamper, tabasco bottle in hand, Ethan took his lunch to the living room and settled on the couch. Saturday’s afternoon work block at his desk could wait another few minutes. Bunsen hopped up beside him, eyeing the hummus again.
He tapped the golden retriever’s nose with the abandoned chew stick. “Definitely not. Here, clean your teeth. And your breath. I can smell those peppers in your stomach already.” Then he propped up his bare feet, took a bite of spicy chickpeas, and returned to Forster’s message.
If she was careful to separate her stories from her professional life, then she probably wasn’t a writer by trade.Diametric contrast, she’d written. She lived in the Bay Area. Maybe she was a software engineer. Or a project manager. A venture capitalist. A startup CEO. Could she be at NASA Ames? But she’d already revealed more of herself today than she’d intended. That was clear. While he couldn’t forget what he knew, he could at least respect the rest of her privacy. He erased the question he’d started to type. Instead:
Ethan
Agreed. Keeping art isolated from work is good hygiene.
Bunsen burped a pungent waft of hummus.
“That’s disgusting,” he told the dog. He scratched the retriever’s shoulders with one hand, trying not to inhale while typing a second message.
Ethan
Better hygiene than Bunsen has.
Forster
How was his walk?
Ethan
Every walk is a good walk. Even the ones where he eats things decomposing under a bush.
Forster
