myself...
“She keeps a bottle of that in her bottom desk drawer too.” This time we laugh together and she whispers, “Shh...Don't tell her I told you.”
“I won't. I swear. It'll be our little secret.”
Fuck, I'm hoping that's not the only one we share...
After giving her a few more directions, I say, “I think local talent is very under appreciated. When I travel I make a point to not only learn about it but to embrace it. Certain places have a more defined devotion. For instance, when I was in Arizona, there was heavy Native American influence in several of the styles, which as an outsider it's almost impossible to really understand or properly acknowledge. It didn't stop me from trying though. There was a wildness mirrored in numerous paintings. I attempted to explore that side of myself. Capture what they captured. Feel some of what they did. Often the attempt to understand is mislabeled as the attempt to imitate. But I wasn't. I had nothing but appreciation for the small city of Navalaco and it's people. Some of the stories they told of pain and unresolved racism could bring a grown man to bawl like a baby.”
June gives me an excited glance. “Is that all you do? Travel around, create art, and listen to stories?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you do that living off your trust fund?”
The stab, though predicted, still stings. “Actually, no. I pick up work wherever I go. It's not usually hard to find somewhere to let you bartend or wait tables.”
An annoyed scoff leaves her. “Let me get this straight. You've probably got enough money in your bank account to buy at the very least, a small island, and you choose to serve food and liquor. Are you crazy?”
She immediately prepares to apologize when I cut her off, “No more crazy than anyone else just trying to get by. And for the record, I support myself by selling some of the artwork I create. In some places when I do 3-D sidewalk art people throw money into my art case the same way they would a street musician. I'm not just another spoiled brat with a bank account and no ambition in life. I live off of what I make and treat the hush money my mother siphons to me like a savings account.”
June puts the car in park outside of the art supply store. “Hush money?”
Shit. Did you hear that too? No. It's not up for discussion.
“Are you an art fan?” I question, side stepping a conversation I have no intention of ever having.
“You could say that.”
“Art major?”
“I was an art history major. Kinda one of those who can't do, so teach types of things.”
“Everyone's an artist,” I reassure and unbuckle my seat belt. “The question is what's your art form.”
“Finger painting?”
The two of us share a laugh and exit her car. We stroll inside the older building where we're immediately hit by cheap lighting and the overwhelming smell of something in the kiln. Grabbing a push basket, I take us left towards the drawing supplies.
Love that smell. Love the paint stained concrete floors. Even love the shitty flickering lights. Together they establish a rare environment no major chain can ever mimic. Appreciate the uniqueness in your city.
While I begin to contemplate over what I'm in the mood to grab, June informs, “You should know whatever you buy here is on me.”
I lift a curious eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You like me that much?”
A dreamy look swirls around her brown eyes and the desire to lean over to kiss her increases.
Been fighting the urge to do that since I helped catch her from falling yesterday. What if that's all it'll take to make the urge for her settle back down to tolerable? I should just do it now and see.
Before I can make a move, she tosses her hands in the air. “Oh! No! Not on me, me!” She bumps her elbow against the edge of one of the shelves. “Ou...What I meant was your Aunt Brandi insists whatever it is you
“She keeps a bottle of that in her bottom desk drawer too.” This time we laugh together and she whispers, “Shh...Don't tell her I told you.”
“I won't. I swear. It'll be our little secret.”
Fuck, I'm hoping that's not the only one we share...
After giving her a few more directions, I say, “I think local talent is very under appreciated. When I travel I make a point to not only learn about it but to embrace it. Certain places have a more defined devotion. For instance, when I was in Arizona, there was heavy Native American influence in several of the styles, which as an outsider it's almost impossible to really understand or properly acknowledge. It didn't stop me from trying though. There was a wildness mirrored in numerous paintings. I attempted to explore that side of myself. Capture what they captured. Feel some of what they did. Often the attempt to understand is mislabeled as the attempt to imitate. But I wasn't. I had nothing but appreciation for the small city of Navalaco and it's people. Some of the stories they told of pain and unresolved racism could bring a grown man to bawl like a baby.”
June gives me an excited glance. “Is that all you do? Travel around, create art, and listen to stories?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you do that living off your trust fund?”
The stab, though predicted, still stings. “Actually, no. I pick up work wherever I go. It's not usually hard to find somewhere to let you bartend or wait tables.”
An annoyed scoff leaves her. “Let me get this straight. You've probably got enough money in your bank account to buy at the very least, a small island, and you choose to serve food and liquor. Are you crazy?”
She immediately prepares to apologize when I cut her off, “No more crazy than anyone else just trying to get by. And for the record, I support myself by selling some of the artwork I create. In some places when I do 3-D sidewalk art people throw money into my art case the same way they would a street musician. I'm not just another spoiled brat with a bank account and no ambition in life. I live off of what I make and treat the hush money my mother siphons to me like a savings account.”
June puts the car in park outside of the art supply store. “Hush money?”
Shit. Did you hear that too? No. It's not up for discussion.
“Are you an art fan?” I question, side stepping a conversation I have no intention of ever having.
“You could say that.”
“Art major?”
“I was an art history major. Kinda one of those who can't do, so teach types of things.”
“Everyone's an artist,” I reassure and unbuckle my seat belt. “The question is what's your art form.”
“Finger painting?”
The two of us share a laugh and exit her car. We stroll inside the older building where we're immediately hit by cheap lighting and the overwhelming smell of something in the kiln. Grabbing a push basket, I take us left towards the drawing supplies.
Love that smell. Love the paint stained concrete floors. Even love the shitty flickering lights. Together they establish a rare environment no major chain can ever mimic. Appreciate the uniqueness in your city.
While I begin to contemplate over what I'm in the mood to grab, June informs, “You should know whatever you buy here is on me.”
I lift a curious eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You like me that much?”
A dreamy look swirls around her brown eyes and the desire to lean over to kiss her increases.
Been fighting the urge to do that since I helped catch her from falling yesterday. What if that's all it'll take to make the urge for her settle back down to tolerable? I should just do it now and see.
Before I can make a move, she tosses her hands in the air. “Oh! No! Not on me, me!” She bumps her elbow against the edge of one of the shelves. “Ou...What I meant was your Aunt Brandi insists whatever it is you
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