I tuck my high-heeled feet underneath my chair and try to resist the urge to shiver. It’s too cold in the little office, but at least it’s warmer than the lobby. I watch Mr. Carmichael’s hand as he turns over the leaves of the binder because I know if I look at his face, I’ll start staring again.

He runs his thick fingers along the plastic page hugging my printed copy of “Damsel in the Red Dress,” which Mrs. King sent him, like he’s caressing the paint, his eyes dancing over every inch of the image, right to left.

“It’s no wonder you won,” he says, raising his dark eyebrows and blowing out a long breath at the same time. “I saw the footage from the Award Ceremony, but it didn’t do the thing justice. This piece is beautiful, Ms. Palmero.”

“Alicia,” I say lightly, “You don’t have to call me Ms. Palmero.”

He looks at me for a moment, his head tipped slightly to one side as if he’s listening to something I’m not saying, then he looks back at the painting, resting his hand on the red-garbed damsel-

“You know…” he starts slowly, “...when I first saw this painting in the footage, I couldn’t help but notice that you were wearing a red dress yourself…though it was obviously a different dress from the one in the painting. I was wondering if that was a coincidence, or if there was some connection between the story behind the painting and…”

I tilt my head quickly, tugging on my ear like I’m adjusting the hoops - and blink too many times. But he can’t see that. He doesn’t know.

“I’d love to know the story…if you don’t mind.”

“No, yeah,” I say with affected lightness, clearing my throat, to remove the husky overtone, “It was just…inspired by a photoshoot that I did with my ex-boyfriend. It was called “Bed of Roses.” You might have seen it in Callisto Magazine, or heard of Etan Sosa…”

He squints, clearly surprised.

“Etan Sosa! I know that piece! I didn’t see it in Callisto though. It was part of a collection-”

“Colored Girls Only,” I reply, calm with misery.

Reading something behind my face I tried to paint in shades of gray - nebulosity - he calms down, sitting back in his chair, and staring intently at my expression.

“But that piece…it looks nothing like 'Damsel in the Red Dress.'”

“No,” I say - impressed by my own ability to keep my voice steady, “No. The…Damsel in the Red Dress was inspired by…after.”

Despite my unusual fortitude, he knows he’s crossed into the badlands -

“Sorry.” He says it quickly, raising his hands as he does, like he’s pleading innocent, “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it. I get too curious sometimes, especially when I come across such genius…”

I shrug, trying to come across like I don’t care. He flips the page, smoothing his hand over the printed peonies, with unnecessary gentleness, before he looks back at me.

“Now, all that you’ve shown us up until this point has been copies and photographs of copies. I know you sell a lot of prints of your paintings online, but do you still have the originals?”

Relieved at the change of subject, I relax and nod.

“Yeah - yes. I kept the originals of all of my pieces but three, which are owned by some close friends. Kat- someone I know, told me I should never sell the originals because they’d be worth a lot someday.”

“Kat was very right,” Mr. Carmichael laughs - and then there’s a pause, “Is Kat your boyfriend?”

“No,” I reply slowly, not feeling the need to get defensive like I usually do, “He’s just a good friend of mine.”

For some reason I find myself wanting to explain - watching Mr. Carmichael watch my face with that sympathetic, friendly interest that convinces me he’s more than willing to listen:

“Actually, that friend is kind of half the reason that I’m here. Kat…Kattar has been telling me that I’m destined to be legendary since we were teenagers. He wants me to become big and famous for whatever reason, so I thought I’d give it a go… just to see if I really can.”

“Well, I’m more than certain that you most definitely can,” he smiles brightly “We have to make Kattar’s dream a reality. Though of course, it’ll mostly be your doing. I’m just here to be the man doing the grunt work…”

I laugh a little and smile, without trying to - a breath of fresh air.

Mr. Carmichael rambles on about arranging interviews to help me build traction - draw some attention.

“You’re not nervous on camera are you?”

“No.”

I smile again and it’s easier than the last one. Mr. Carmichael scribbles on his phone with a green paisley stylus.

“Fortunately your ancestors did half the marketing for us. I’ll bet money there aren’t many other artists with your last name on the market right now. Where exactly does ‘Palmero’ originate from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s Spanish,” I smooth the front of the binder with my left hand, but keep my eyes on his face, “I’m Mexican and Navajo on my dad’s side - just plain Mexican on my mother's.”

“Is that so,” he says with a smile, “speak any Spanish?”

I nod, “I’m out of practice though.”

“But that increases our options ten-fold. That’s good to know. If you happen to be able to dance on aerial silks or do a backflip, you should also not hesitate to mention that....”

I laugh and his green eyes laugh back at me. I submit to my curiosity.

“Okay, but you -” I begin, and he looks up from his phone, “You have me stumped…the green eyes…”

“Arab, Irish, and Venezuelan,” he says with a wave of his hand. “My ancestors put all the jokers in my deck.”

“Or maybe they just wanted you to be ‘colorful,’” I quip.

“Colorful,” he bounces his eyebrows in a way that makes me start cracking up, “Like those nasty little pieces of dried hell in a fruit cake. But you’re the ‘rainbow ocean,’ not me. Though admittedly a lot less of a rainbow...”

I shake my head - pushing my hair back - grinning like a puppet. I have to try to stop smiling - and I love that.

Mr. Carmichael - Shannon - glances up from what he’s writing with a cheerful smile and winks playfully, “We are going to have a lot of fun, Alicia.”

“I hope so.”

*

The sun has emerged from beneath its blankets when I leave the office. It’s snowing lightly, but the weather is surprisingly warm and I start to wonder if my ‘green’ Christmas prediction will prove accurate.

I check my phone as I walk quickly in the direction of the subway station. I have to go shopping, but I decide to text Kattar first, to see how he’s doing, and ask if I can come by.

There’s no reply, but nothing daunted, I make my way to the supermarket, and then to his apartment - figuring he’ll have no qualms against me storing my groceries in his fridge and cabinets until I’m ready to go home.

The door is closed but unlocked when I arrive, and several men I’ve never seen before are moving about the living room, in an amiable, but business-like air.

Caregivers.

Again I hesitate on the threshold, but Kattar sees me, as he’s wheeled into the living room.

I don’t know what to say when he lays eyes on me, but he smiles a tired, rather sheepish smile, clearly in a better mood than he was the last time. The caregivers gather garbage and big bags filled with who-knows - and I-don’t-want-to-know-what, making their way toward the door with polite nods, and tippings of invisible hats.

There’s silence again, like the fade out at the end of a song, when the footsteps disappear out of perception down the hall and I stand staring at Kattar, who sits staring up at me.

I shift uncomfortably - then - as if struck by genius - sit down quickly on the sofa and remove my heels-

“It’s alright,” he says quickly “Everyone’s been walking all over the carpet with shoes on at this point. We just leave them on.”

“Oh.”

“So how was the first day?”

I hold the shoe in my hand for a minute in silence before slipping it back over my stockinged foot.

“Did you enjoy ‘brainstorming’ your next steps?”

“It was pretty fun,” I say, standing up again, noting the way that Kattar watches the process with an air of being swamped. I tower above him in the 5-inch pumps, running one hand through my hair. “Shannon’s really nice, and we work well together.”

“Is he nice, or does he just look nice?” He tries to say it like a joke, but there’s something unmistakable in his eyes and his laugh this time, despite the affected indifference.

“He looks well enough,” I say nonchalantly, watching his face out of the corner of my eye as I continue brushing my hair down over one shoulder, “Dark hair and nice skin…”

His breathing changes, just subtly, and I let myself drink in the toxic thrill, like some sort of harpy - man-eater.

“-and he has the prettiest green eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them - like the eyes of that old cat that your mom used to have, the one that inspired that white lion painting I made. Shannon actually arranged some promotion with a nature art magazine, and they want me to do an interview talking a little bit about that piece. It’s a big opportunity so I don’t want to do anything awkward. I told him I’d never done an interview before and he said he’d hel-”

My tongue freezes to the roof of my mouth.

He’s crying. 

Just the faintest traces of baby raindrops cling to the long straight lashes, but they’re there, sure enough. 

I drop back onto the couch without thinking, bringing him to eye level again.

“What’s the matter?” I whisper.

He looks away immediately, pulling his hair back and off his face as if he just got something in his eyes, and says, a little angrily:

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?”