" I'm tired of talking about me, what about you?" Innocently she flutters her eyes and steers the conversation as she dismantles the feta on pita sandwich on her paper plate. The Greek man at the counter eyes the feta, knowing that he'll only be throwing it away, resents putting out the little effort for such a pretty girl. Unrequited attention.
The man next to her at the bar eyes her as well. Such a pretty little thing. We wonders why he warrants attention from this young bohemian, why she said yes to a date and what kind of underwear she was wearing. He smiles as nimble little fingers roll and crush a curd of pungent cheese, asking himself if a metaphor has been displayed, and if indeed it was, what the hell it meant. "Oh, I don't know. I'm working on a commission for a law firm right now. They saw my work downtown at the center and requested a similar piece. Smaller of course, but within the same vein. It seems that in times of crisis, these big companies need to show more than ever that they are thriving. It's a bit arrogant, but it really keeps the arts alive."
"We are always in a state of crisis."
"Hence the need for art." He smiled, appreciating a sense of interest within this object. A piece of art in herself, the mused, what kind of crisis might she bring? "How about a drink?"
The girl looked up, abandoning her feta mosaic in the shape of a nautilus, mischievously bringing her lips to a grin and playfully spinning of her seat. "Lets."
He took her to a dingy, bar two blocks down. The ambiance was darker, and quite a change from the fluorescents of the Greek café. The walls in the bar were suffocating, gasping for relief of their relics and artifacts stapled, hammered, mounted and stuck on with duct tape. Over the pool table, dollar bills fluttered on gum like bats to a cave, disturbed by the air conditioner. In the corner, a booth with a small brown lamp provided them refuge. She liked the atmosphere, raw and guttural; she was in the city and it smelled like the city and it tasted like the city and he looked like the city and she felt cultured and rough like the city. Big changes, she delighted in her surroundings, just act like you've taken this breath before. Act natural, your not a child and this isn't a tour, you breathe it and you will live it.
He was older, and she appreciated that. Much older. Twice her age, but that was all a part of the experience. Grey had firmly established an annex of his long hair, jutting out from the temples. He was aged, and that excited her. The fact that he had been brought up in her home town was interesting, and the fact he had never returned left her hopeful for a new life. She ordered a glass of wine, which over the conversation drew pink cheeks to her already existing glow. She wanted the art, the patience he possessed and wanted inside the psyche he was so consistent in maintaining. She wanted the life of the struggling artist, to thrive in the squalor and find beauty in the mundane, but only in the city of brooding writers, of junkie musicians and of the man in front of her, could she obtain that dream. She fumbled with her glass, finally achieving the most sophisticated way of holding it. This is how Dionysus would have wanted it.
"So why did you leave?" The girl knew, but asked anyway.
"I needed more, end of story. I went to the University, dropped out when I had the connections, and just worked from there, honing."
"Honing?" She pressed.
"Taking the little basics of what I knew and drawing them out by asking myself everyday, what would make this richer, fuller, deeper? How do I reach every eye and make it question what it perceives every day. Challenging peoples minds and making art as complex as I possibly could."
How did that work out for you?" The wine had made her slightly nasal in her banter.
I found out that you can't reach people with making things deeper and more complex. Instead of making them think, you r art becomes more of a soapbox, and you lose a lot of effect by being to political. People begin to disregard what you convey as a statement with a black and white acceptance. You understand or you don't."
" So intensity berates art in the eyes' of the beholder?"
"As a metaphor, it becomes a sonnet in Latin and not all people speak Latin."
"And then how, prey tell, can you reach the non Latin speakers of the world?"
"You make it simple." He winked at the waitress, who understood his Latin, and brought more wine.
"Universal?"
"No, because then you are pulling too much to the table. Just simple.Pure."
"Pure, I like that. Keep it simple and the message, or lack thereof is brought to the table?"
"Yes." The freshly opened second bottle of wine hit the table. Classic, he enjoyed the serendipity.
She felt vibrant and clever and a bit existential.
The conversation had waves of depth and segued to the moment. Just two people, learning each other, in the here and now. Breathing. Eye to eye. Glass to glass.
" So is there passion in simplicity?" She wanted to learn and drank his every word.
Bingo, he loved this. Talking with a young mind, exuberant and inquisitive, with eyes that could envelope the sea . Perfect porcelain, she was renaissance. He wanted to touch her flushed face and caress the soft shoulder peeking behind tank top and sweater. He could draw this moment. Soft charcoal, smudged along satin, creating curves and depth.
"Well what is passion?" he really wanted to know her mind, while his eyes were in enamored focus of her frame.
"Passion, um…" She had to think, through the haze and bliss of the wine. "is intense desire."
"Then what is desire?"
"Desire is the infatuation with the unknown. It's the curiosity that fuels us and the insatiable need to quench that thirst for more. It's the mystery upon which we thrive."
"Well put." God, I could fall into those eyes, he thought.
"To the mystery." He held up his glass of wine and felt it's last drop at his lip.
The walk to her apartment was close and personal. Exchanges of soft quiet touch , a graze of a shirt sleeve, an elongated, slightly tipsy lean in, she breathed in his scent; masculine and warm. He was comforting, a kind of woolen blanket of a man, that could make her feel safe, of only for a minute. Pink lights were slightly starry in the fog that settled around them. A much appreciated chill had finally taken hold over the city.
"So, what will you be doing in the future?" She asked. "I mean, apart from the commission?" She blushed at the ridiculous question, embarrassed, yet hopeful another date was ahead.
"After the commission, I'll be heading to Mexico" He sobered at the thought. Stiffening a little, bracing for a wave of mortality to break surf on his mind. He wasn't going to tell her. This was a night to keep.
"When will you be coming back?" A bit crestfallen, the girl fell into her six year old self, a pout emerged in her heart, yet she was determined to suppress it.
"Three months. I'm having a show at the University." He lied. He had already planned his memorial show. Time frames would no longer be an issue in a few months.
"Well, you'll have to put me on the list when you come back. I would like to see you again before you leave, though." A flirtatious glint sparked in her eyes. Sunset on the beach.
"Yes, that would be wonderful." Another lie. This night would be a still frame picture. Art, passion, desire, why spoil it with the truth?
"Thank you." She looked down at the ground and wanted to shuffle her feet.
His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her essence toward him. Remember this, the man made a promise to himself. Remember her. He knew he would.
Soft lips touched and fell together. She breathed him in.
"Thank you." he smiled, touching the face he could no longer resist, and walked away.
No comments:
Post a Comment