12
CHRIS
Outside, there remained an hour or so of daylight.
Chris turned to face Frank. "We could stay around here, but there are some nice places to go for a drink by the harbor." Conveniently, those bars were also very near Chris's home.
Frank shrugged. "You're driving so I'll go wherever you take me," Frank flirted.
Chris hoped Frank meant that exactly the way Chris chose to hear it.
Within minutes they were parking at the harbor.
Chris checked the location and paid for the parking via his phone app. He parked at this spot frequently, so the details were stored from last time. He knew CCTV cameras covered the area and his car would be perfectly fine left there overnight. Chris didn't drink and drive. And he intended to drink.
As they walked toward one of the many bars across the street, where people sat and stood outside with their drinks, enjoying the last of the September sun, Chris tapped the key fob to lock the car.
"Do you sometimes feel like everyone's looking at you when you pull up, park, and get out of that car?" Frank asked. There was a sizeable distance between them, it must have been several feet.
"Not really, no. I didn't think about it." Chris reflected on Frank's comment. Even though they'd held hands, in private, he seemed very self-conscious.
There weren't many patrons inside the bar that went back deep into the dugout cliff, so they sat on bar stools as they ordered the first round of drinks.
They blended in like any other couple of buddies out for an early evening drink. It had been a long time since Chris had thought about whether or not he blended in. Did that mean passing for straight? It wasn't something he ever tried to do. Out of consideration for his companion, Chris didn't need to do or say anything too loud and outrageous.
Just for tonight.
At least not until they were alone.
At the thought of home, Chris thought he'd better send a message to Tom, as agreed, just to let him know about progress. He pulled out his phone and told Frank, "I just need to send a message."
Frank nodded and turned to watch the bar staff.
Before Chris could complete his message, two pints of beer arrived in front of them. A thumbs up emoji appeared almost instantly in reply to the text that Chris might not be alone when he arrived home later.
When Chris put his phone away, Frank asked, "Did you always want to be an artist?"
"To be honest, and I don't want to sound big-headed, I was one of those kids who was good at everything at school. I preferred art and went on to art college. The rest, as they say, is history. And here I am today."
Frank raked his fingers through his hair. "You make it sound so easy."
"It’s not easy. I think it's like any business. I work long hours, and I don't enjoy the admin. The tricky part is finding the customers who want to buy what I've got to sell. And getting past all those people who poured water on my fire."
"What do you mean?"
"All the dampeners and doubters. Those who would rain on my parade. I don't get it so much now, although it does still happen. Up to just a few years ago, I knew way too many people who told me that my work was rubbish."
"No!" Frank tilted his head, surprise on his face.
"Not rubbish, exactly. More that it wasn't something that anyone would want to buy. I'd never make a living as an artist. And that, with my degree, I should go and do a year's teacher training and become a teacher, as it was the only thing I'm good for — not that there's anything wrong with being an art teacher."
With his mouth hanging open, Frank looked shocked. "How rude."
"They didn't think they were rude. They thought they were watching out for my best interests. They thought I should be realistic."
"No."
Chris knew damn well his experience wasn't unique. "Has everyone in your life been super supportive?"
"Far from it. I'm not an artist. I've never been to art school, but I make stuff. I like what I make, and I like the process of making it. And, well, I've had more than one person pretty much tell me I’m wasting my time. For all the hours I spend carefully crafting my pieces of wood, they could nip down to IKEA and buy whatever I've made for a fraction of the cost."
Chris raised one eyebrow. "I'd like to see what you do with your wood." He grinned suggestively.
"I'm sure you would." Frank placed an empty glass down on the counter. "You ready for another?"
Only halfway through his pint, Chris picked up his glass, held it aloft, and nodded. "Sure. You were saying about the people who trampled on your dreams."
Frank let out a deep sigh and hung his head to one side. "I've had, what did you call them? Doubters. Ash, that's my ex, she had very definite views about how to live our lives. Very definite views. It was either her way or the wrong way. And I've already told you she saw something nasty in the woodshed." His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn't.
Chris nodded. "Exes, believe me, I've had my share of unsupportive exes. Tell me more about the woodshed. How did you get into working with wood?" He finished off his pint and placed the glass on the bar.
"I fell into it. I love the feel and smell of wood. It's amazing all the things you can do with it. It's very versatile."
"Like me." Chris grinned. So much for not saying anything too gay. But really, Frank had started it with his wood innuendos.
Frank peered at him curiously, and Chris wondered about moving the conversation back on to woodworking when Frank smiled. His whole face lit up, including his sparkling eyes.
"You like the feel and smell, huh? Tell me more about your wood." Chris was being ridiculous. Even so, the thought of Frank's wood generated a certain slight stirring that Chris had to get control over if he didn't want to appear like a fifteen-year-old.
Frank shifted in his seat. He seemed to think about the question for a moment. "Each piece is unique because of the grain. What you get out depends on how you handle it to start with."
"How you handle it, huh. Do you prefer it hard or soft?" Chris asked with a completely straight face.
To his credit, and for comedy gold, Frank didn't flinch, but replied as if it were a serious question. "That depends on what I wanted to do with it. You know soft is better for some things, whereas hard is essential for other applications."
"I can't argue with that." Chris looked at the glasses in front of them. The second round of drinks were disappearing fast. "We could order bar food here. I'm a bit hungry. What about you?"
Frank focused on the food menu, chalked up on a blackboard behind the bar. "I could go for a burger and chips. Have you eaten here before?"
"Yes, it's all perfectly edible bar food. Let's make it burger and chips twice."
The bar filled up considerably while the men demolished their food and consumed a couple more rounds of beer.
Was it only a couple of drinks? Did that mean four pints each or more? Chris had lost count. He just knew he was losing track of the conversation and time. Frank seemed to have loosened up a bit, sometimes coming out with more than two sentences in a row. It was time to move things along before they got any drunker.
"Much as I'm enjoying the evening, I can't stay here until closing time because I have an important meeting in London tomorrow. I'm going to have to call it a night."