Back Again

(Skye)

That night in bed, I slide my hand between my legs and remember the hot guy at table six. After he left, I kept messing up orders, kept taking the wrong drinks to the wrong table. I even undercharged one table by twenty bucks, which got me in deep shit with Kevin.

It’s a good thing I’ve never made a single mistake before tonight. Even my first day went by without a mistake. In the end Kevin just chalked it up to a bad day. I wasn’t about to tell him that the real reason was a bad boy who wouldn’t leave my head.

My lungs heave at the memory of him. I wish I’d been able to look closer at the art on his arms. It tells so much about a person. From what I saw, the art on one arm was all clever geometric play; shapes that morphed into one another. The other sleeve was a mix of so many styles and subjects, I didn’t have time to even begin to appreciate it.

I’d bet any money they all have deeper meanings. I tremble at the idea of him wrapping those inked-up arms around me.

My fingers continue to work around my entrance.

When he’d kissed me, my cheek burned in heat. That same spot is burning now, a feeling now radiating through the rest of my body.

The memory of him saying my name pops into my head, as real as if he were standing in the room saying it now. It sends me crashing over the edge. My body pulses with the first orgasm I’ve been able to reach in months.

All the tension, all the worries about money and my parents and my career vanished that night, and I had the best sleep I’ve had since leaving Michigan.

In the morning, feeling fresh, both physically and mentally, I head straight to my studio and start on a brand new canvas. I try to explore the themes I thought I saw on the arm I had a better look at.

“Oooh, are you moving in a new direction?” Ava asks, bringing me a cup of tea.

“I thought I’d explore basic linear shapes today.”

“It’s fascinating. I can’t wait to see where you go with it.”

“Thanks,” I say and take a sip of the tea, inhaling the peppermint smell.

“I’ll leave you, I don’t want to disturb creative genius at work. I just wanted to bring you something to drink.”

I stand back from the canvas, sipping my tea and examining it. I can’t go down this little self-indulgent path any further; it’d never sell. Not that my other stuff is flying off the shelves, but at least it has potential.

I whitewash over the canvas and put it aside. In my sketchbook, I draw out a few ideas about the woman the man was with, and all the places she would be out of place in. I run with the idea, jotting and sketching everything that comes into my mind.

Soon I’ve come up with a concept for a series of paintings on out-of-place wealth, and how money detaches a person from the rest of the world. An evening gown on the beach. Dangly diamond earrings on a tree in the woods. A tiara on top of a scarecrow’s head.

I immerse myself in the project for four days, spending every waking hour on the paintings. Ava brings me food and drinks, and I break to eat, but otherwise spend every second of my time on them.

Thursday meets me with dread I have to work at Johnny’s tonight.

The three canvases are lined up in a row in my studio, and I fiddle with the green of the trees in the forest, trying to make the leaves appear as natural as possible.

Noticing my hunger for the first time in days, I put down my brush and make my way to the kitchen. As I approach it, I overhear Ava speaking on the phone in the living room.

“I don’t understand why you won’t remortgage my property,” she is saying.

My heart sinks. I pause to listen to her conversation, I can’t help myself.

“Yes, I know I’m over retirement age, but I have a pension that covers the payments.”

My heart is now pounding in my chest, and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. Not wanting to hear anymore, I rush into the kitchen. I try to unwrap the bread bag, but my hands are shaking so much I give up and grab a banana instead.

It doesn’t matter what Ava says, I’m going to have to take on extra shifts at Johnny’s. And I’m going to start painting more mainstream projects. Enough of the self-indulgent museum pieces, I’m not having a kind woman fritter away her house and pension because of me.

While I finish my banana, I scan the commissions available on a local artists’ website. I send my details off to a handful, then decide fuck it, I need anything I can get, and send my details to all the current postings.

Most are for things like portrait paintings. A few are for things like ‘paint my house’ or ‘paint my dog’. Some people have way too much money on their hands.

With Ava’s comment about remortgaging echoing in my head, I put up a profile of myself with photos of both myself and some of my pieces, as someone looking for work. Until now, I’d always viewed the artist profiles as people who weren’t being true to their art. Now I’m one of them.

Throwing myself back into my paintings, I decide I need to finish this project as quickly as possible, even if the quality suffers. By the late afternoon I’m absorbed in making the diamond earrings shimmer. I lose total track of time and only realize I’m late for work when Ava comes in and tells me.

That night, I make sure to set my alarm to make sure I’m not late for Friday’s and Saturday’s shifts. I’m skating on thin ice after last Saturday, and then being late today. Now, knowing Ava’s situation, I can’t risk the income.

On Saturday, I hide in my waitress station wiping down the menus. Kevin lets me know a party of two has just arrived at table six. I grab two menus and head to it, ready to give my standard welcome spiel.

When I reach the table, the hot guy from last week is sitting in the same spot he was last Saturday. A different woman sits across from him. A thousand butterflies fill my insides.

“Hey, Skye,” he says and winks at me.

“Welcome back to Johnny’s Roadhouse.” My smile is not the fake plastered-on one I normally greet guests with.

My cheeks burn red when the thought crosses my mind that he’s become the star of my nightly fantasies. Shamed, I drop the menus on the table and hightail it back to my wait station.

Leaning against the wall, I try to calm my breathing. I pat my cheeks, willing the red to go away. This is nuts, I have to calm myself down, or how will I be able to go out there and take his order? Let alone carry a plate of food to him without dropping it…

“Hey,” he says, poking his head around the partition. It startles me and I jump, which seems to delight him.

“Is everything okay?” Instinctively, I revert to my robot waitress mode.

“You forgot to take our drinks orders.” Okay, I tell myself, he’s just here for normal, everyday restaurant stuff. It’s nothing to do with me; he hasn’t read my mind about what I do with him in my fantasies at night.

“Oh, oops, what can I get you?” I smile, but am painfully aware of the slight tremble in my bottom lip.

“A couple of Buds would be great.”

“Coming right up.”

“Cheers, Skye.” He winks and leaves me leaning against the wall for support.

I take a few deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. What is the matter with me? Just because the hottest guy who’s ever walked in this place is back, I fall apart and start acting like a star-struck twelve year old.