The eyes are what get me. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen - so vivid and bright - and out of place in his brown face, like emeralds set in amber, or buried in cinnamon - but he attributes my dumbness to his not being a woman. 

With an airy laugh, Shannon Carmichael takes the seat next to mine, and rests one elbow on Mrs. King's desk, with the air of a connoisseur, to better appreciate my embarrassment as I try to recover from the initial shock.

“I surprised you? I surprise everyone.” The eyes sparkle like green stars, but the amusement I read there is good-natured and welcoming, inviting me to laugh with him if I so dare.

I dare, not so much because I find the whole mix-up as amusing as he does, but because something about his face makes me want to laugh - not that he’s funny looking - I suppose he’s well enough - 

I only get more flustered trying to sort out my own thoughts. I must have been silent for only a second or so, but it feels like too long. He’s still smiling in my direction, and that just reminds me of Kattar.

Deciding not to fight the slight embarrassment, I shrug, letting the redness run in and out of my face.

“I guess I was a little bit surprised,” I admit, in an understatement. The words come out like a breath and I steady my voice, for a second attempt, speaking a little louder, “I was expecting a lady.”

“Everyone does,” He laughs again, pumping his fist in a comically affected way. “Got another one.” 

He clearly has too much fun with the consistent mistake - if there’s such a thing as too much fun. Mrs. King shakes her gray head sagely, trying to hide a small smile. 

“Oh, the expressions are gold. If you’d seen yours…” he half-sighs, finally recovering from his own joke, and assuming a more-or-less dignified posture. He crosses one leg over the other, holding the knee of his gray slacks with both hands, those baffling eyes still laughing quietly.

“It’s totally fine, though. Everyone’s confused by my name the first time. It’s not a very common one for guys, you have to admit. My mom was just extra. You can call me Mikey if you like. Most people do.”

Mrs. King raises one hand to stop the tangent before it spirals too far off-topic.

“Alright now, Mike, you’ve had your joke. But remember that you’re only one of three agents who’s looking to work with Ms. Palmero. I hope you’ve prepared a strong argument.” She chuckles, as she says ‘Mike,’ relenting to the suppressed laughter, with a soft sigh. “You’ll have to excuse us, Miss Palmero. The Veggera Foundation has never been the most professional organization in the world. We tend to operate outside of the usual conventions. It would defy our founder's sense of ‘fluidity, and color,’ to be normal, so no one we work with ever is.”

“It’s fine,” I shrug a little shyly. “I wasn’t really sure what to expect either way, to be honest. I’ve never worked in a ‘real’ professional setting before. This is my first job interview, ever.”

Mrs. King looks at me with an expression of complete, mute bewilderment, but Shannon quips:

“You mean to tell me I could have showed up in my pajamas and you never would have known the difference?” he snickers at his own joke, and the sound is so cheerful, that I find myself relaxing.

“Pretty much,”

“What a wasted opportunity.”

“Mike,” Mrs. King reproves, with a sharp ‘mommish,’ look, before looking back at me as if waiting for me to explain. I’m not quite used to being stared at so intently - at least, not for most of my life - by most people - and I’m still not comfortable with it, but I try to push through, dividing my attention between the two of them so the over-attentiveness doesn’t cause me to freeze up.

“The thing is, most of my work has been freelance, my whole life. My friend’s mother helped me set up my online store when I was 16 and I attended college for free, so I’ve just been living off of my prints, and random art commissions since I graduated from high school, ten years ago. I’ve never had a 9 to 5 or even a part-time job.”

This time both Shannon and Mrs. King stare at me dumb-founded - Shannon’s mouth agape in shock and disbelief. I immediately get shy again and have to resist the urge to cover my face.

“Geez, you’re just a regular little prodigy then,” he says, the emeralds glowing in his face with unfiltered awe. “No hours at 2-star pizza parlors for our 2023 award winner.”

“It’s more like years for a good many of us, at least until after college,” Mrs. King adds, shaking her head again as if she hasn’t quite processed what I just said. “That’s nothing short of remarkable…”

“I’d never thought of it that way,” I say quickly, honestly, “I always figured, I didn’t have much option but to keep doing art at this point. I’m almost thirty with no job experience to speak of.”

“But to be able to succeed at that,” she holds her wrinkled hands out like she’s urging me to expand my horizons - to think bigger. I stare at the wall.

Mr. Carmichael puts his hand on the arm of my chair, and says sympathetically, dialing down the glitter in his eyes, “Well, at the very least, you don’t have to worry about any awkwardness, Ms. Palermo. Quirky and weird are how we do things at The Foundation. And as far as careers are concerned, if you can make a living at your passion, why would you want to do anything else? You’ve already made a place for yourself as an artist, and with our help, you’ll be nothing short of legendary. Veggera told you so himself when you won the award and that’s no small feat. You wouldn’t believe how many entries The Foundation receives each year before they pick their winners. It crosses into quintuple digits.”

My heart starts to fall at the mention of the award - but the intensity in his eyes catches me off guard. There’s a touching gravity to his tone like he’s begging me to realize the magnitude of my accomplishment - to let it sink in with all its glory and brilliance. It’s been more than a month. I wonder when I will, if ever.

“Speaking of The Foundation,” Mrs. King butts in, “I was supposed to give you some more of the details on how everything would be arranged. You have to excuse me, I’m getting old, and Shannon is no help.” She rolls her eyes in his direction, and he rolls his back, but she ignores him, fixing her glasses. 

“Should you decide that you DO want to work with The Precioso Veggera Foundation,” Mr. Carmichael turns his focus to Mrs. King but doesn’t take his hand from the arm of my chair as she continues, “We’d like to sign you to our company. We would pay Shannon, or whichever agent you choose,” Mr. Carmichael mouths the word ‘me’ and motions to himself with one thick finger, “an initial grant to help you ‘get the ball rolling,’ in exchange for your being one of our official artists.”

For the first time, I grasp the full weight of what she’s saying. My jaw drops like a marionette.

“You mean I would be one of your ‘Rainbow Oceans?’ Like the people featured at your summer showcases, and on the wall in the lobby…?” 

“Of course,” Mrs. King smiles, sliding the piece of paper, all marked up with notes from her folder and handing it to me. “You’d be part of our second wave of signed artists. The first was the ‘bronze oceans,’ this one will be silver.”

I’m so shocked I can’t even speak, or think. My whole body feels electric - light.

I look at the scribbly printed page, bedizened with tiny compliments in a thousand different hands.

“Good use of symmetry and color.”

“Finesse in her lines.”

“Depth and contrast. That’s pretty rare.”

“Unprecedented mastery of emotion and mood - bordering on a prodigy.”

Then of all things, I start crying. First one tear - then a thousand rolling rivers of salt, sliding down my cheeks and into the collar of my coat - without warning. I pull the scratchy sleeve over my face, unable to hide my embarrassment. I’m such a mess.

“Ohhh darling,” Mrs. King coos, reaching a box of tissues out to me. “I know this can be a lot to take in - overwhelming even.”

But that isn’t it - it is - it’s too much, too late.

I try to suppress the smothered sobs, and sparks, feeling guilty, for the first rush of excitement - for the joy that insists on surging on my insides and getting tangled up with the gut-wrenching grief and misery.

How is this possible? Now?

Is this what Kattar gave up his happiness for?

If it is, is it worth it?

I’m sorry for how happy I feel - for this airy, euphoria that tastes like anxiety filling my chest - for feeling something, good, for once in forever.

It shouldn’t be possible that I’m so happy. It shouldn’t be allowed.

I’m too happy - and that idea makes no sense - the happiness makes no sense.

I’m too happy - for the life I’ve had.

But is it wrong, while Kattar sits trapped in that claustrophobic little apartment, that I want to hold onto this feeling?