-Will be situated in the gallery’s left wing. We recently added on to the original building to make space for our new exhibits-

-However much you think it would take to fill out this area. I know you artistic types are always thinking of the total effect, white space, and all that…You can basically design the exhibit however you fancy, so long as it doesn’t break out into the main area, and we’ll just get our team to hang the paintings according to your instructions…

-The price is negotiable of course, we know how much originals tend to go for, but we’re thinking around four thousand dollars apiece….

-Sign here, please.

January has been a whirlwind. It’s been aggressive acedia. It’s been a hurricane of new faces and a literal blizzard - but I feel like I’m in the eye of the storm, with everything spinning around me. Maybe that’s just my egotism speaking.

In the midst of it all Kattar has been texting almost every day, but he hasn’t once brought up the Christmas party. I don’t know if he’s angry or just practicing that 'strong silent type' thing he seems to be so into lately.

Mrs. Moon is back in San Diego. All the lights have been stripped from the neighborhood and the whole place is ugly and naked. My living room is full of dead flowers and the corpses of ferns.

Well, I guess it’s crunch time. Only a month until the opening ceremony. Are you excited?

Yeah. I guess so. Kind of…

Electronic rattlesnakes.

My phone trembles in my pocket at the sound of Kattar’s incoming text just as I get off the bus in front of the gallery. I turn my back to the wind and the street, taking my gloves off quickly to reply - so I don’t forget-

As if.

So it doesn’t haunt me.

 “Hey, are you busy?”

Is that all?

Even so, there’s a nervous grating in my chest - an anxiety that’s been weighing me down for the last several days. I just don’t have time for my own drama these days.

“No, sorry, I have a meeting in like ten minutes about the artwork for the gallery.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was just wondering.”

But why though?

I can’t even imagine what he’s thinking.

“Do you have plans today?” I prod - as if that would make anything clearer.

“Just physical therapy, and walking practice. Same as every day.”

I cringe.

“Be careful not to overdo it.”

“Overdo…” I can feel the frustration - turning the phone into red hot coals, sparking in my bare hands - “I’m almost 29 years old. I shouldn’t be able to ‘overdo it’ walking.”

“Sorry.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re sorry.”

-Could we move it a little bit more to the left? Almost like a step pyramid, or a ziggurat, with the lion in the middle and the peonies on the right just below it?

-Do you think it’s a little weird to have both the wolf and the lion? Thinking contrast-wise?

-We could take one out - But not the lion. I’m keeping the lion.

“And the talk is supposed to run between thirty to forty-five minutes,” Shannon drones, flicking his pen against the stacks of paper covering the desk, before forcing himself to sit up with the air of someone waking from a doze. “But those are pretty flexible guidelines. You can be slightly under or run over, it’s fine either way.”

“K.”

He looks at me from under his eyebrows before leaning back in his chair.

“Well, you can read over all the boring technical stuff whenever you like, there’s still plenty of time for that. The main part of the project is the exhibit.”

“Yeah, but it’s still better sooner than later. This is going to be a big event, and I don’t know anything about making speeches. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” he smiles, tapping his pen against his teeth, “If all else fails just smile and wave like a pageant queen.”

“Ha ha,” I shrug shyly, embarrassed under the weight of his steady gaze. There’s something about the look in his eyes today that makes my heart flip, but I try to ignore it-

“Have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the opening?” 

“Not much,” I sigh, and by that, I mean ‘not at all.’ “I’m not usually that into clothes and makeup, and I don’t know much about fashion.”

“You looked pretty stylish in that little cocktail dress you wore to the award ceremony.”

“Well, that wasn’t my doing. My friend Kattar styled me for the award ceremony.”

Shannon raises one eyebrow with a skeptical look that embarrasses me more than ever.

“Well,” he says almost sarcastically, “he certainly showed his taste.”

I don’t know what to say to that and just shrug a little awkwardly.

“He has a good sense of style.”

But…still…

I remember the look on his face when he saw me in that red dress for the first time, though he thought he could mask it - and how angry it made me - wishing he wouldn’t have waited so long to let me know…

Now I’d give anything to see him look at me that way one more time - without that inky cloud blotting out the light in his eyes.

*

Hey, are you busy?

Yeah - I’m so sorry. I’m literally in the office right now - the meeting’s in five-

I jump as the door opens and quickly slip my phone into my pocket - unable to explain why I’m turning so red. Shannon looks at me with a teasing smile.

“Texting your pretty boyfriend?” 

“No - I was just…” I burn red to the roots of my hair, “I’m sorry. It’s just a friend of mine. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I know, I know. I’m just messing with you,” he laughs, “You’re a career girl.”

I’m drenched in de ja vu, thinking of gift wrap and sashes, and Kattar’s statement about my metamorphosis

“No, I’m not,” I admit miserably, catching Shannon a little off guard, “I’m just cursed when it comes to love.”

*

“These artists…” the curator says staring dumbfounded at my painting-ziggurat. “Well, they never make anything boring.”

“I know right?” Shannon laughs, “It caught me off guard the first time I saw it in all its glory. But that’s what you get for giving her free reign, I suppose. She certainly didn’t hold back when you told her to do her worst. February’s going to be epic.”

“I sure hope so,” I say under my breath.

*

“Hey, you,” Shannon says with a kiddish moan in his voice, nudging my shoulder with one giant finger, “Don’t look so glum. No one can see your pretty face when you keep you’re head down.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize to me,” he laughs carelessly, “Your mamma didn’t make you beautiful for my sake. That’s what I get for not placing an order…”

I turn crimson. 

“Oh, come on…” I manage through the embarrassment.

“To the ends of the earth, my lady,” he bows teasingly, with a superfluous sweep of his arm, and that just makes my face burn hotter.

*

“So if you’re satisfied, we’ll consider it done, and we can start advertising the opening,” the curator says, before sighing and shaking her gray head. “Mr. Carmichael has set a pretty steep price for the marketing campaign. You certainly won’t let her film anything for cheap, will you?

“Masterpieces are never cheap,” he says cheerfully, “and at this point, Ms. Palmero is almost as popular as the paintings themselves.”

“So I’ve heard,” the curator sighs, “so I suppose we’ll just have to deal with it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Though at this point, I’d pay twice as much to get out of the whole thing, if it wasn’t for him.

Maybe someday all this will feel as wonderful as I wish it felt now.

At the moment I’m just trying to keep a promise, to myself, to Kattar, though I never said it out loud.

I’m not going to give up on myself - give in to the shadows - again.

*

“Hey, are you busy?”

“Yeah, today’s the interview. I’ll send you the link to the video when it comes out - sorry I don’t have time to talk.”

“You don’t. have to apologize. It’s fine.” 

“Sorry - I mean - I’ll try not to. Sorry.”

Sorry.

*

“Well, look who showed up looking fabulous and fashionable today,” Shannon smiles when I arrive for the promotional interview. I don’t have it in me to look him in the eye today and stand staring at the pavement, shivering against the cold.

“I thought I should try and do the company justice,” I mutter, hugging my arms until they ache.

“You hardly have to try for that, but I admire the spirit.”

“The only spirit in me is a lethargic ghost,” I grumble, “I’m just ready for the season to be over.”

“That bad was it?” He probes opening the door for me, as I turn away.

“You have no idea.”

“But I’m all ears if you want to tell me.”

Maybe another time.

This heartache feels too personal.

*

“Can you come over later?”

It’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but I’m working every day of the week these days.

“Sorry. My schedule’s packed.”

“After work?” 

The reply comes through faster than it usually does.

I bite my lip but make myself say: “It’ll be nearly 10 P.M., Kat.”

There’s a pause.

“You’re working that late with Mr. Carmichael?”

I can’t tell if he’s jealous or worried, but neither one gives me any thrill at this point.

“We have to finish making all the promotional material for the exhibit. It’s less than 3 weeks away.”

"Ok." But I still feel the hesitation, “I hope it goes well.”

*

Lions. Peonies. Paperwork. Pens bedizened with teeth marks. Teeth photoshopped whiter. 

Half a dozen advertisements - half a dozen takes of a single shot - because I’m still no good at posing - but we still manage to finish up early on Sunday, and the daylight is still going strong by the time I reemerge from the subway for the last time in this miniature sun cycle.

I immediately text Kattar.

“I just got off work? Are you free? I can come over and we can watch a movie.”

The text comes through so fast, I almost think he was waiting to pounce on me-

“Don’t. I’m busy, today. I’ll tell you when you can come over again.”