Page 29 of I Love My Mistake
Chapter Sixteen
The Next Afternoon
SoHo Art Materials on Wooster is getting pillaged like it’s France and I’m a Viking. No table is left un-scavenged. I’ve stacked up double the quantities of everything I need. Eight brushes? Make it sixteen. Twenty-five yards of canvas needed gets actualized into fifty yards. Hell, make it seventy-five. Every color of paint is coming with me, two tubes each. Make it three, no four. I grab yards upon yards of unprimed canvas, inspired with an idea of what I want to do.
I haven’t had a cigarette all day. Haven’t even thought about it.
“You taking a cab?” the guy behind the counter asks, prompted by the surplus. His voice and eyes are flat and emotionless.
I look at the pile. “I guess so.”
He rings up item after item. “Just starting out?”
I pick up a brush to touch its soft potential. “You could say that.”
“I’ll call a cab for you,” he offers, dead-toned.
I lay the brush down, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.”
Still there is no emotion in his voice. “I want to.”
“Umm… Okay.”
When the cabbie arrives, he runs in and – miracles of miracles – helps me carry my many things to the car. This never happens. Cabbies who go out of their way to help you are as rare as a cable man showing up on time.
“So, you’re an artist?” he says, smiling jovially into the rearview as we take off.
I smile back, excited. “I am.”
He holds a finger in the air like he’s a cartoon character about to announce an idea. “Looks like you’re ready!”
I laugh. “From your mouth to God’s ears, my friend.”
“Yes. Yes!” His head bobs about twenty times.
“You’re very sweet.”
He waves off the compliment and focuses on the road.
I pull my phone out to answer a text that comes through and when I see who it’s from, a digital knife slices my psyche, killing my mood.
“You okay? Miss?” the cabbie asks, looking from his rearview mirror. I’m too busy reading Michael’s text to hear him.
Michael: I want to talk.
“Miss?” the cabbie asks, louder this time.
“I don’t know,” I say, above a whisper as I type the one word I could not say if he were right in front of me.
I stare at the phone, caught in suspense, dying to know what he’ll say to the word ‘no.’ Has he ever heard that word before? Have I ever said it to him? Has any woman, ever?
Michael: Please.
The cab hits a pothole and my phone flies through the air to land on the floor. Another text comes through and I scramble to get it, angry at my haste and desperation, but unable to be strong.
Michael: Don’t be like this.
Me: You did this. Not me. Leave me alone.