Page 4 of Colors and Curves
Daisy wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Congrats, Jules. You deserve it, but—”
I drop back onto the stool and cross my arms. “You know how I hate when you saybut.”
“There’s only one itsy bitsy condition.” She steps back and bites her lip. “You have to attend opening night.”
Chance walks over and drops his ball at her feet. Perfect distraction. She bends down and scratches his head. “How are you, my cutie? Want to play fetch?” She picks up the ball. He barks and sits on his haunches. His eyes don’t leave her hand. She tosses the toy into the living room, and he scrambles after it.
I drag my hands through my hair. She swats my hand away from my head and I lean away. “Stop doing that to your hair all the time. You’re going to go bald.”
“Whatever. So what did you say to her?” I don’t do public appearances.
“I told her I’d get back to her. If you want this as bad as you say you do, you’re just going to have to suck it up. I know details and people are superfluous to you—you just want to sell your photographs. But I wish you’d start to come to the openings. Get to know people. It’ll increase your sales.”
“Why are we having this conversation again? You know I’m a loner and keep to myself. I’m not a talker.”
She leans over the counter and grabs a banana from the fruit bowl. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you need to stop hiding behind your work and start interacting with people. With your fans.”
“Whatever. Don’t talk to me about hiding behind something, Ms. Tattoo.”
She flips me the bird, then splits open the banana. “That’s a low blow. You can try, but you’re not going to turn this conversation to be about me. It’s not gonna work.”
Daisy is covered from head to toe with light-colored tattoos. They’re gorgeous. She started getting them in her late teens—they made her feel better in her skin. Her shoulder-length hair is dyed a silver-blond; well, that’s what she told me the color is. I only see gray. She looks like a piece of art herself.
“I interact with people every day on the streets and during photo shoots.”
The banana is halfway to her mouth again, but she stops before she takes another bite. “Bull. You blend into crowds so no one sees you. You hardly even speak to your models. You tell them what positions to assume and then when you’re done, most of the time, you dismiss them immediately with barely even a thank you. That’s not interacting. That’s being a dick.”
“So? Don’t you always say my middle name is Dick? I have a rep to protect,” I joke. Her lips purse.
“Anywayyyyy, your exhibition at Nouveau Exposures opens this Friday night. It’s also the gallery’s official opening. It’s a great place. The manager, Skylar, is cool, young, and beautiful. She really knows her stuff, and we get along well.”
I crack my neck. “You’ve told me this several times.”
“Well, sometimes I wonder if you ever listen to me. Why don’t you come to this one as a test run? It’s a smaller venue. It’d be a huge hit for you and for the gallery.” She takes the last bite of the banana and throws the peel in the garbage.
“People go to galleries for paintings and photographs, not to see the artist.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. Come on, big brother. Give it a try.” She bends over and picks up one of her sneakers.
I know she’s right, but I’m not going to budge. How weird would it be if this Skylar she’s mentioned is that woman from the park? Again, how many Daisies can there be who are involved with openings. Let me try to find out.
“So Chance plowed over a woman today in Central Park. That new leash you bought was a piece of shit. He bolted after a squirrel and it just snapped in two. It amazes me how fast he can run with only three legs. And since when does he like squirrels? But he knocked her flat on her ass.”
“Holy shit. Did she get hurt? We don’t need a lawsuit on our hands.”
“Give me a break. When she tried to get up, Chance got his paw stuck in her dress and scratched her chest. Just a little one. But she was covered in coffee and dirt, and didn’t seem to like me very much.”
Daisy snorts. “I wonder why. But Chance running off like that is out of character. Maybe it was just pent-up energy. It’s been so hot, we haven’t been walking him as much.” She finishes tying her sneaker, then picks up the other one.
“Maybe. She must’ve tasted really good… he wouldn’t stop licking her. I was waiting for him to start humping her leg.”
She giggles. “That’s strange. He usually growls or snaps at strangers. He doesn’t lick them.” She shrugs her shoulders. “You know how Chance loves anything vanilla like you do. Maybe that’s what she tasted like.” Is God testing my restraint? But it doesn’t matter because I won’t see her again.
“How am I supposed to know what she tastes like?” Why am I being defensive and answering a question she didn’t ask? She eyes me with suspicion.
“Was she pretty?”
A few seconds of silence fills the air because I don’t know how to answer her. It feels like a loaded question, and I usually don’t talk about women this way.