I had indeed spent the afternoon working frantically on a new piece, trying to channel my anxiety about our meeting into something productive. "How did you—"
"I pay attention, Micah," he said simply, leading me through the entryway into a large open-concept living space with soaring ceilings. One wall was entirely glass, offering a view of the forest and, beyond it, the distant mountains turned purple in the twilight.
The living room was sparsely furnished with an oxblood leather sofa, two matching armchairs, and a walnut coffee table. The artwork displayed on the walls was darker, more visceral than the pieces in his office. A series of abstract paintings dominated one wall, deep crimsons and blacks swirling together in a way that suggested both violence and beauty.
"I've prepared dinner," Ezra said, moving toward the kitchen. "I find creative work is best done on a full stomach, and I wanted our first evening together to be properly commemorated."
I followed him. "You cook?"
"I find preparation of food to be a complementary art form," he replied, pulling a cast iron pan from the oven. "One that engages different senses than painting."
The pan contained perfectly roasted meat, glistening with herbs and its own juices. On the stovetop, a deep red reduction sauce simmered.
"Please, sit," he said, indicating a place already set at the island. The plates was stark white, providing a canvas for the food he was artfully arranging. "Wine?"
"Please," I said, sliding onto the stool, watching his hands work with the same grace they'd shown in his office yesterday.
"A Barolo," he said, placing the beside my plate. "Full-bodied, complex. It will complement the venison."
"Venison?" I looked down at the meal he’d placed before me.
"From a young buck, actually. I processed the meat myself," he said, his eyes meeting mine with a flash of something predatory. "He led me on quite a chase through the forest behind the property. But the pursuit always makes the reward that much sweeter, don't you think?"
“You hunt?” I asked, though the news didn’t surprise me. Maybe he didn’t seem the sort on the surface, but I knew a predator when I saw one.
"The flesh of prey animals carries the memory of fear," Ezra continued, watching as I took my first bite. "Adrenaline and cortisol are released into the muscles during that final chase. It changes the flavor, adds a complexity you'll never find in domesticated animals."
I’d had venison before. One of the neighbor boys liked to hunt and shared some of what he brought home with my grandma, who turned it into chili or stews. But the venison Ezra served me was nothing like the tough, chewy, gamey meat my grandmother had served. It was a perfect medium rare, tender and rich. When I put the meat in my mouth, I had to pause to collect myself. My eyes fluttered closed.
"Good?" he asked, his voice low, almost intimate.
I nodded, taking another bite. "It's incredible."
"I'm pleased you appreciate it," he said, a note of genuine satisfaction in his voice as he seated himself beside me.
We ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the clink of silverware against china and the subtle crackle of the fire in a fireplace I hadn't noticed before. The wine warmed me from within, relaxing muscles I hadn't realized were tense.
"Tell me, Micah," Ezra said finally, turning slightly on his stool to observe me more directly. "What frightens you most about your own work?"
I paused with the wine glass halfway to my lips. "I'm afraid of what people would see," I admitted, putting down the glass. "Not in the work itself, but what it would reveal about me."
"And what would they see if they looked closely enough?"
The shadow inside me stirred at his question, pressing against the boundaries of my skin. "That there's something wrong with me. Something that... enjoys the darkness."
"There's nothing wrong with appreciating darkness, Micah," he said softly and placed a hand on my arm. "The most profound art emerges from the shadows, not the light. Caravaggio understood this. Goya. Even your religious iconography draws its power from the contrast between divine light and mortal darkness."
He slid his hand down my arm, brushing his fingers against my wrist before withdrawing. The touch was brief but electric, sending a current of awareness through my body.
"What if what you perceive as wrongness is actually rare insight?" he continued. "A capacity to see beauty where others see only horror? To find meaning in aspects of existence most people spend their lives avoiding?"
His words resonated with the shadow within me, as if it recognized the kinship in Ezra's philosophy.
"Society has a vested interest in pathologizing those who see too clearly," he said, rising to clear our plates. "They call itillness when it's really perception. They medicate vision into blindness."
He placed our plates in the sink and gestured for me to follow him. “My studio is this way, but first, I want to show you something.”
He paused before one of the abstract paintings. Up close, the texture was created by a mixture of conventional materials and something organic that created an unsettling luminosity within the darkness.
