"Artists, musicians, people living on society's edges," I said. "People who have moved beyond conventional limitations to embrace more authentic expressions of themselves."
He nodded, absorbing this deliberately ambiguous description without further question. "Seven o'clock," he repeated, rising from his chair. "I'll find it."
"I'm certain you will," I said, walking him to the door. As he stepped through the doorway, I added, "Micah."
He turned, pausing in the corridor. "Yes?"
"The drawing is exceptional. Don't fear its completion. The destruction inherent in your process isn't an end. It's a transformation."
His shoulders relaxed, and his genuine smile warmed the otherwise austere hallway. "Thank you, Professor. Ezra," he corrected himself, testing the intimacy of my given name on his tongue.
"Until tonight," I said, and closed the door, moving to the window. His step was lighter now, shoulders straighter, head held higher, physical manifestations of the psychological shift occurring within him. The anticipation of our outing was already altering his chemistry, priming him for exactly what I needed.
I returned to my desk, opening my laptop to review once more the file I'd compiled on Micah Salt. The information was comprehensive—childhood trauma, religious abuse disguised as spiritual guidance, isolation enforced by his grandmother's fear of his "unnatural tendencies." A fragile psyche structured around shame and denial, held together by a desperate need for validation.
The perfect canvas for my particular art.
Ezra
The Hollow was preciselyas I had described it: a gathering place for those at society's margins. At the end of a poorly marked gravel road, the converted barn’s weathered exterior gave little hint of the vibrant community within. The rough-hewn wooden beams overhead and polished concrete floors below were callbacks to a time when the barn held animals instead of people. Yet the purpose remained. Instead of horses corralled in stalls, it held people penned in booths, performing social scripts.
I arrived twenty minutes early, securing a corner booth that offered an unobstructed view of both the entrance and the entire establishment. This positioning was deliberate; it would allow me to observe Micah's reaction upon entering, to gauge his response to the clientele.
The Hollow's patrons represented a diverse cross-section of society's periphery: artists with paint-stained fingers nursing cheap beer, musicians with instrument cases propped beside their tables, service industry workers unwinding after early shifts, and a significant number of same-sex couples displaying varying degrees of affection. Not exclusively a gay bar, but undeniably a space where such interactions were normalized, not exceptional.
I ordered a single-malt scotch, allowing the peaty aroma to fill my senses as I waited, observing the dynamics playing out around me. A couple at the bar —two women, one significantly older than the other — caught my attention. There was a particular quality to their interaction, a subtle dominance in the older woman's posture, a receptivity in the younger's responses that mirrored the dynamic I intended to establish with Micah. A hand at the small of the back, fingers briefly encircling a wrist. Control without obvious assertion.
When Micah entered, I had the pleasure of observing his unguarded reaction to the environment. He paused in the doorway, eyes widening slightly as he took in the diverse clientele, gaze lingering momentarily on a male couple seated at the bar, their hands interlaced on the polished wood surface. A complex series of emotions crossed his features: surprise, confusion, a flicker of what might have been longing quickly suppressed.
He scanned the room, relief washing over his face when he spotted me in the corner booth. The sanctuary of the familiar amid the challenging unknown. I waited, allowing him to come to me.
"You found it without trouble," I observed as he slid into the booth across from me, his cheeks flushed.
"GPS," he said with a small smile. "It’s tucked away."
"That's part of its charm. What will you have?"
"Whatever you're drinking is fine."
I nodded, pleased with this small surrender. "Tell me, Micah, what do you see when you look around this room?"
He hesitated, glancing cautiously at our surroundings. "People seeking connection," he said finally, choosing a safe response. "Or escape. The lighting creates interesting shadows, makes everyone look a bit... unreal."
"Good observation," I said. "But look deeper. Who draws your attention first? Where does your gaze naturally rest?"
The server placed another scotch before me and an identical one before Micah. He took a sip, wincing slightly at the strong flavor, using the moment to gather his thoughts as his eyes scanned the room more deliberately.
"The man at the end of the bar," he said finally, indicating with a subtle tilt of his head. He’d chosen a well-built man in his forties, silver beginning to thread through his dark hair, nursing a beer in solitary contemplation. "Alone, but not lonely. There's something... contained about him. Self-sufficient."
An interesting choice that revealed more than perhaps Micah intended. The man possessed a physical type not dissimilar to my own—mature, fit, radiating a quiet authority. His solitude recalled my own cultivated isolation. The selection was revealing, a Rorschach test of Micah's unconscious attractions.
"Why him?" I pressed, watching Micah's face closely.
He took another sip. "He seems... comfortable in his solitude. Unlike most people here, who are clearly seeking something from others."
"The greatest artists made art of what they desired most," I said. "Who do you desire here, Micah? As a subject... or otherwise?"
The question hung between us, its dual nature, artistic inquiry and personal probe, exactly as I'd intended. Micah's cheeks flushed deeper, but he didn't look away, a testament tohow rapidly our previous encounter had begun dismantling his defensive architecture.
