Standing in front of a Picasso, Carter tilts his head left and then right, looking at it with a furrowed brow.
“What does it make you feel?” I ask.
“Huh?” Carter says, now looking straight on at the piece.
“All art is created from emotion. The artist sees something, whether with their eyes or their mind, and feels something within their soul. The art, or painting in this case, is merely the method the artist uses to convey that emotion. There’s no right or wrong answer, though, in what the viewer feels when seeing the art. That’s the beauty of it.”
“I feel . . .” He pauses and then admits, “confused.”
I laugh lightly. “That’s completely valid. Especially with pieces like this that challenge what you see with your eyes. I mean, obviously, people don’t look like this, exactly, but it was Picasso’s perception of them. Take the line of the eyes here. Most people have eyes that are unilateral.” I hold my hand flat at my eye level, showing that mine are even. “What could he be saying about this person by painting their eyes off a linear line?”
Carter pops off. “That he was drunk, high, or both, and seeing double?”
Disappointment floods me. He’s been doing well, listening and responding thoughtfully, but I’m trying to push him beyond the technicalities of the art. If he truly wants to impress his client, the deeper meanings will be key. He can’t just read the name on the painting and start repeating a Wikipedia page by rote memory. Well, I guess he could, but something tells me that won’t be enough for this client.
He could just smile at her and she’d probably hand over the passwords to her whole portfolio.
“Try again,” I challenge. “Think deeper.”
His lips purse, and I realize that what I said could be easily misconstrued. Thankfully, he doesn’t make a juvenile joke about ‘I’ll show you deeper’ like most man-child types would.
“Okay, the eyes are—as my grandma would say—cattywampus. I’m trying to think what she would say about someone like that.” I watch him as he stares contemplatively at the painting, and his entire mood shifts into something serious and introspective, which is somehow more attractive than his typical gregarious charm. “Someone who always thinks there’s something better around the corner. Like they’re here with you” —he points at the painted eye that seems to be in the correct placement and then moves to the other— “but they’re always on the lookout for something better or different. Distracted by what could be or what they could have. Like being with you in the moment isn’t enough.”
My heart skips a beat as my jaw drops. “Wow,” I say breathily. “That’s . . . really good.”
“You don’t have to seem so surprised. I’m not all dashing good looks and Southern charm. I’ve got a brain in this head too.” He taps his temple with one of those panty-melting smiles, seemingly not offended at my over-the-top reaction, but it feels a bit forced and there’s a blankness in his eyes that wasn’t there a few moments ago when he was talking about the meaning in the Picasso.
“No, I didn’t mean . . .” He gives me a sharp look, and I confess, “Okay, maybe I did. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you couldn’t grasp what I was talking about. That was rude of me.”
“Apology accepted.” He dips his chin once, and with that, it’s like the whole thing never happened. He says brightly, “Where’s your favorite piece in the whole museum?”
Interesting. It seems Carter has a deeper side than maybe I’d considered, but he keeps it hidden away. I can understand that. It’s not like we’re besties. I’m just a means to an end for him, but for a moment there, I could see more to him. And that ‘more’ is way more interesting than Carter’s usual fa?ade.
“This way,” I tell him, leading him toward the piece that I love the most in the entire museum. I’m actually a teensy bit curious what Carter’s take will be on it.
Please don’t let him say something stupid like ‘I could do that in five minutes’ or ‘he really put his all into it’ about the white splashes. I hear comments like that too often, and they infuriate me with their dismissiveness of the talent behind the piece.
The large Jackson Pollock is a relatively new addition to our collection, and anytime I have a few moments, I like to sit and study it, finding something different in the layers of wild colors each time. It gives me a lift when I begin to feel like my work is never going to be enough, or seen, or valued. I pour all of myself into Alphena, and somehow, the chaos on the Pollock canvas makes that feel like a normal and reasonable thing to do.
I stand in front of the piece silently, hoping that Carter can see some of the magic he saw in the Picasso painting in this one as well. Unexpectedly, Carter drops to a knee beside me, and at first, I think he’s fallen. Maybe he passed out or spontaneously hurt his leg?
I gasp, “Are you okay?”
He looks at me from a crouched position and reaches for my hand. I reach back to help him get up, still confused on how he ended up on the floor, but he doesn’t stand. No, he holds my hand in his warm, large one and gazes up at me with a strange look in his eyes.
“Luna, thank you for sharing your days with me, and your nights. I hope to share a lifetime of them together with you as my wife. Will you marry me?”
“What?” I manage to squeak out.
Did he bump his head somehow? Is he having a stroke?
My focus shrinks and time rolls in slow motion. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a thick swallow, and then he smiles and tiny lines sprout beside his eyes, which are so blue and locked on me in a way that makes my whole body freeze in place. Squeezing my hand, he repeats more clearly, “Will you marry me?”
That’s what I thought he said, but it makes absolutely zero sense. We barely know each other and don’t even like each other. We’re ridiculously incompatible, my awkwardness and his smooth charm a piss-poor fit. And again . . . what?
Through the fog of my confusion, I hear a voice cry out, “If you don’t say yes, I will, honey!”
I look around to see that we’ve gathered an audience of onlookers who have their hands clasped over their mouths or at their chests, eyes wide with excitement over witnessing what must look like a romantic proposal. It’s my worst nightmare come to life, or one of them, at least.
I can feel my mouth opening and closing as I look back to Carter. “I . . . I . . .”
He pushes a ring onto my left ring finger and then stands, grabbing me around the waist in one movement. He spins me in a circle wildly, my feet flailing through the air. Applause surrounds us and then . . .
Carter. Freaking. Harrington. Kisses me. Right on the lips, like he has any right to.
My first thought is that he’s a great kisser—his lips soft, his mouth warm, and his breath minty. My second thought is . . .
“Put me down!” I shout, slapping at his shoulders.
The onlookers laugh, and a lady says, “Let him pick you up while y’all can still do that.” I glance over to see her smiling lovingly at the wrinkled and hunched man at her side.