Buzz. Buzz. Shake. Shake. “Vin. Vin, wake up.” Viloria climbs out of bed and hurriedly slips into her flats. “It’s the Witch of the West.”

“Shit.” I had forgotten she was going to return.

Buzz. Buzz. “I’m coming!” My feet swing off the bed onto the cold wooden floor and I walk slowly to welcome our guest, looking back for Viloria briefly to see her huddled near the bathroom as I open the door.

“Son.”

I blink. Once to clear the sleep from my eyes and a hundred more to be sure I’m not still dreaming, “Father?”

A rough man dressed in a finely tailored suit stands before me. “I was told to drop by and secure a piece for the London exhibit. It was said to be remarkable enough.” His is the image of how he might wish that I look twenty years from now, but with short, darker hair and brown eyes. Clean shaven without a stray hair on his head. His attention to detail has always outbid my larger picture, being a source for the frustrations we’ve always shared together. Like how I envision most dads being, he was my biggest critic, though what most would call love and constructive criticism - I felt was alienation and disapproval. We are even wearing the same designer brand from Europe and he has managed to make it look more expensive; while I’m a common thief.

I point over my shoulder to the wall and my father skirts his way around me, catching Viloria with his eyes, “Young lady...” His head nods before he stops in the middle of my art corner.

Without a word, I point simply at the turned canvas and my father leans down to grab it. He places the painting back on my easel, then steps away so that I may catch a few small twitches of his lips as he studies the piece. Like a connoisseur with his wine, my father breathes it in, swirls his imaginary glass, then judges his sip. It takes an eternity, only for me to be surprised. “Magnifique, son. The finesse of the strokes. Down to the details of anatomy. I…” It’s the critique I have been waiting for since grade school. “It’ll be a fine addition.” He reaches up and pulls the painting free of the easel, tucking it gently under his arm. “The exhibit isn’t for two weeks, but I will have your ticket booked before then.”

“My… wait… my ticket?” Both I and Viloria follow him to the front door where he stops.

“It will be your debut.”

“But… you’ve never… I’ve never. Do I have to go?” I hadn’t thought the day would come. But, then again, I hadn’t really been anticipating it.

“We leave Friday, the 12th, at four to catch our AM flight to London. I suggest you will be ready.” My father opens the door and disappears before either of us can speak another word. The heavy wood closes in its frame and Viloria grabs my arm, spinning me around to face her.

“London?! You aren’t going, right?”

I pull my arm free of my girlfriend's grasp, walking over to the window to watch as my father slides into his silver sedan; a car that probably cost more than the building I’m standing in. The canvas girl eyes me from the passenger seat as the car backs away from me and she rides away with my father at the wheel. What begins as an initial panic dissolves into relief the further the two go. I feel free when they disappear around a corner, but empty.

“Right, Vin?” Viloria places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn.

“Why would I?” It’s obvious that I don’t have a choice, but a little resistance assures my girlfriend that I’d rather stay here with her.

“It’s so far. We’ve...never had that kind of distance between us.” She rests her head against my arm with hers wrapped tightly at my waist, “Not sure I could let you leave.”

“He’ll change his mind.” What could really change in the last 24 years? Something will likely come up to save on plane fare, or delay my art scene further. Though, I don’t put a lot of weight on my words. There is something different about this.

“Good! You better be here when I come back. I’ve got to meet my mom somewhere.” She lets me go to begin gathering her things.

“Don’t you also have to worry about work tonight?”

“Right...that.”

“Nothing like being a functioning adult.” I smile, knowing nothing of such a thing, but feeling that I can at least imagine it.

“It’s overrated, truly.” I follow her to the door where she stops to give me a kiss, “I’ll call you. Just answer it this time.”

Viloria descends the stairs before exiting the building. Her sedan is parked right outside my place. I can see it from the large picture window as it backs onto the main road. My eyes don’t move from the window for some time, then I find myself staring again at my easel. That first painting; one in the last two years. I wish that I could view it now, to reflect on what drove me to paint it. Even with it gone, I can feel the rough bark of the tree and the silk likeness of her hair. But, I can no longer hear her.

I walk to the easel and place an old piece on the ledge. It is a worn landscape, unfinished from a time when I thought I might be good at meadow scenes. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it didn’t last long enough to waste too much paint and I don’t have to waste too much more painting it over. I start first by creating a blank canvas for me to begin again with. Then, I stare at it for at least an hour or two till I even pick up a brush. Though, even with a brush, I can’t seem to muster any ideas. “Oh, come on!” How do I create something amazing and then nothing? I’m beginning to question if I had painted at all. Perhaps it had been a dream.

The rest of the day is wasted at the easel, brush in hand, waiting for something. That is when I retire to the floor with a pen and sketchbook. There, I draw every detail I can remember of the girl. Every nuance. Every line. An entire page is dedicated to her hair and the way it fell over her shoulders in waves of red. The next page, it’s her eyes, and another is filled with sketches of her hands. I continue till I’ve cleared my mind of it, then I’m back to the couch until morning.

***

Sleep is fitful and I wake with the failed attempt to paint fresh on my mind. There are sketches now littered all over the floor, though it doesn’t feel like enough.

The girl is all I can think about, while another is thinking of me. My phone vibrates and I grab it, seeing a text from Viloria. ‘I miss you. Can I come over?’

I look at the floor and all of it’s new additions then I reply, ‘We could go out.’

‘I’ll be there in ten.’

“Shit.” I jump out of bed, and quickly change my clothes so that I am out of my house in five and waiting by the pub when she arrives.

“Am I banned from your place now?” Viloria glances up at the window.

“Thought I’d get some fresh air before we leave…”

She appears skeptical, “Ok, well we’re going for lobster. I’m driving.” The car locks click and we both climb back inside her library on wheels.

“Lobster, huh?”

“I just thought of the most expensive food I could. In all honesty, I hate seafood.” Viloria laughs and raises her phone, speaking into it, “Restaurants.” The speaker comes alive with the robotic voice of an English woman. Viloria tosses me her phone as she starts the car and pulls it into reverse. “Here, find us something good.”

My eyes are still dry from sleep, forcing me to blink a number of times before I am able to read off the list, “What’ll it be? Mexican? … Thai? Oh! Look, there’s an ‘American Bistro’.”

“Just not pizza.”

“How about this place? It’s ‘New American’ cuisine. Nothing on the menu is less than $50.00.” I don’t know why I’m indulging her. But, there are less desirable ways of making it up to her than gorging myself on delicious hundred dollar bills in the shape of various edible waste.

“I don’t know what the Hell that is, but it’s perfect. Where are we headed for that?”

I look at the map, inciting a growl in my stomach, “It’s in York.”

Viloria groans and looks over at her phone. My eyes take the road for her as she fumbles to tilt the screen in her field of vision. “We’re going. I’ve got this sudden need for obscure food at outrageous prices. Even if it takes all day.”

“You don’t work today?” I catch her avoiding my gaze as she focuses again on the road, with her knuckles turning white at the wheel.

“I was fired...two weeks ago.”

“Fired? You hadn’t told me!” Where have I been? How had I not noticed?

“That’s why my mother had taken me out for a makeover...and why I just had to go on that camping trip. I still can’t believe how SHIT my boss was for letting me go.” Her hands raise and hover over the wheel a moment before they come crashing down to grip it tightly again. “Would you believe he said that I was stealing?”

“Stealing?” Not that I hadn’t seen her do it before - but I’m not sure that she had known. “What did he say that you stole?”

“I didn’t steal anything!” She sighs and slows the car as we enter an off ramp toward the highway. “It was a rumor started by that conniving Ms. Prissy Pants, Gloria. I just know it! She told him I was stealing from the register.”

My voice falls just short of inaudible, “Were you?”

“I said I wasn’t, Vin. You have to believe me.” My girlfriend sighs again and releases her grip on the wheel. “It was a crap job anyhow…”

“You’re right. It was.” No one should ever have to grovel and clean after ungrateful shoppers for barely over minimum wage. “If you need help with anything, Vil… I’ll find a way.”

“You mean your parents will…,” She laughs, though I am able to hear the hurt in her voice, “Look, I wanted to tell you sooner. But, I kinda feel like shit for losing such a crap job. A pig could’ve done better than me.” I reach over and place a hand on her thigh as we cruise down an empty stretch of road - bordered on both sides by endless open meadows.

“You’re so much cuter than a pig.”

Viloria turns and smiles at me. “Another twenty minutes, at least. You want to play a game?”

“What kind of game?” I pull my hand away and narrow my eyes as she laughs.

“A childish one. You know, ‘I spy’ or collecting state license plates.” She turns her eyes to the open road then looks to her rearview mirror. There are no other cars out here with us, “‘I spy’ it is, then. I’ll start. I spy something blue.”

I turn my head to gaze out the window to my side. A myriad of colors pass us by in a landscape that could have easily been painted by Monet. I look for blue but see only a lot of greens and yellows till a small pond passes me by, “That body of water?” My thumb points back to where the blue fades behind us.

“Your turn.”

“I spy something…” I could pick a tree, as any four year old might, or I could easily pick a cloud in the sky, a mile marker, a stripe on the road. I turn again to the window and glance out, imagining myself running alongside the car, astride a large gray wolf. We pass by a lot of nothing; all in similar shades of the same palette of colors. “...black.” Up ahead, a black shape circles in the sky; likely a buzzard or turkey vulture.

Viloria glances for brief moments at a time - exchanging attention from the road to our little game.

“Cow?” She points to a lone bovine grazing behind a long wire fence. I shake my head and send her gaze out again for another chance. I notice her eyes darting left and right but not really up in order to see the now fading bird. Given the fact that she will likely miss it, I tap the glass of the windshield and draw my finger up, pulling her eyes toward the target color. “A bird?” She smiles, “Nice one. My turn. I spy something orange.”

Orange? I glance outside the windows, seeing every other color in the rainbow but that one, and I know she isn’t color blind.

Beside me, Viloria clears her throat and nods back over her shoulder, “You wanna grab it?”

“A book?”

“Yes, a book. Orange cover. Lots of words on it.”

I look into the back where she is pointing, which just happens to be in no particular direction. There are books of all sizes and colors; mostly black and white, and mostly the size of small encyclopedias. I notice the only orange book lying near the floor behind her seat and reach as far as I can to grasp it. It’s smaller than the rest and as I pull it up into my lap I notice that it is also different. ‘A Brief History of Great Art’ - I recognize the cover art as the widely known da Vinci beauty, Mona Lisa. An overused iconic image if you ask me, and not just because I happen to be a namesake to the man belonging to such a talented hand. There are just so many other equally amazing works of art to be given credit. After all, creativity is the very essence of diversity and that is the goal, I’d imagine.

“Turn to page 64.” Viloria reaches over and pulls open the cover, tearing me from my thoughts.

I thumb through the pages till I reach 64 and lay the book flat on my lap. I’m familiar with the photos that await me on the glossy pages. As a child, I’d see them hung in the living area till they had been moved into the hall. Every tiny detail I had been told to memorize. To recreate. I had grown so much resentment by the time I was going through puberty that I had torn them down from the walls. If my art hadn’t already disappointed my parents, then that did. Now, here they are again, in color print within a textbook I had already been forced to use while obtaining my useless degree - some of my parents' best work. They call it modern impressionism. I call it child neglect. Their work had always been hung well before any photos of me had gone up. These two particular works were named ‘Under the lights’ and ‘In the ripples’. They collaborated together to portray their budding romance, earlier in their lives before I had come along. It was a testament to a commitment that they would one day bestow their talent on a child so that the world would never have to live without looking at another of their great masterpieces. Too bad they had bore me, and not the next Monet or Van Gogh.

Viloria must have a reason for me to see them; she’d been told the story before. And since I can’t speak, I anxiously await her explanation from my own little corner of Hell - still miles from the city. “Those paintings, Vin. They are printed in every textbook now, handed to every freshman with wild dreams of being successful in the hands of their art degrees. Your parents’ work.” Yes. But I don’t see where she is going with it; dredging the trenches for more reasons to make me hate them, I suppose - perhaps even to keep me from going to London. Instead, “Their talent is half of what I have seen in you. That last painting could easily replace these someday. You should go to London…” A change of heart followed by a long silence.

Only the sound of the tires over the uneven road serenade us for at least another mile; until I vomit the first thought in my head, “And leave you?”

“It’ll only be for a few days, right?” She glances at me quickly, then back to the road as we pass a group of deer.

“Sure.” More like a few days in London, then a few in Paris; and another few in Gods-know-where. It sometimes takes months for my parents to land on American soil again. Though, with me tagging along, who knows. I had always thought their trips were to escape me. “I don’t really want to go.” Now, I speak in half truths. I have always wanted to travel the world - just under different circumstances.

“You’re insane, Vin. I’d give my left eye to go to London. But, I know your parents definitely didn’t invite me along. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there is some underlying plot to replace me there.” She laughs, but I know she is genuinely worried.

I close the book and toss it into the abyss that is supposed to be the backseat of Viloria’s sedan. “Tell you what. I’ll let you decide after we have us some expensive food - I’m starved.” She checks her dashboard and crunches the numbers on her fingers, “We’ve got at least another five minutes to the edge of the city. How about some tunes?” Viloria’s fingers fumble over the presets on her aftermarket radio and voices fade in and out between music till she stops on one. It takes me a moment before I recognize the song as being one I’ve heard before on her playlist; some metal cover of some otherwise forgotten tune from the early nineties. I appreciate her choice in music but, to me, music has always been more about the lyrical story that is told, and if I can hardly understand the lyrics then I fail to pay attention. The song quickly becomes noise and I turn back to the window to watch the landscape change. It slowly transitions from empty to country to civilized.

“Are we here?”

“On the outskirts, yes. The food is somewhere in there. But, we’ll find it within the next ten minutes or so.” Viloria is missing the ‘I hope’ that both of our stomachs have been crying out since we left town. Any longer than ten minutes and my stomach may decide to digest itself.

***

We drive into the parking lot of the restaurant with our bellies empty and our bladders full. Both of us step out of the car as if we are just learning to walk, then head stiffly for the front door. It’s a fancy place, that’s for sure - with tall latticed windows and weathered wooden doors. First impressions say it’s modeled after a tavern from the mid seventeenth century. How quaint that I get a little taste of Europe before actually going there. Viloria and I open the heavy doors together and step back in time. The inside of the place instantly reminds me of the small pub back home, only this cost far more to bring into the twenty-first century. While it’s got the old European flair, it also has touches of modern amenities and decor. Not long after the door has closed, a host greets us near a tall wood and metal podium. “How many?”

“Just the two, please.” Viloria tries her best to fit in with pleasantries, even though her ensemble calls back to the gothic renaissance.

“Follow me.” I notice how the woman’s skirt bunches near her ass as she leads us through a maze of pine and metal.

I pause awkwardly as she stops and motions for us to sit, “Bathrooms?”

The woman hesitates for a moment, then smiles, “Sure thing. To the back, near the kitchen.” Viloria and I battle each other with our eyes to decide who is staying and who gets relief first - and I lose.

She disappears quickly into the ambient lighting as I sit defeatedly then look up to the woman in the skirt, “Two waters… no wait - chardonnay. Your finest year, please.”

“I will return with that shortly. Anything to eat with that before you order?”

I am starving and alcohol on an empty stomach spells trouble, “What have you got?” A modest menu is pulled from underneath the woman’s arm and she places it before me, leaning slightly inward to point out a small block of choices for appetizers - none of which seem particularly exciting, or different from any other menu I’ve seen - except the price tag.

“I’d recommend the provolone sticks, they are delightful and would complement your choice in beverage.” Her breasts are practically falling from the white button up she has beneath a light brown vest and I feel myself avoiding her face as I nod, “We’ll have that.”

“Great. I’ll get that order in.”

I sit, tapping my foot nervously on the floor as the woman walks away and I am left waiting for Viloria to return. With each tap, my bladder weakens and I practically jump up from the table as my girlfriend emerges from somewhere beyond the reach of the small light hung above our table. “Where is it?”

Viloria points, “Straight, then a left.” I say nothing and head in the direction she advised, finding myself in a crowded dining hall of hungry patrons who all seem to have their chairs backed up against one another. I tap a few people on the shoulder and give them a look of desperation as I navigate my way back toward the kitchen and make a left.

Tucked back into the recesses of the building is a small hall with two distinct doors. I shove my way through the one marked ‘gentlemen’ and I'm instantly blinded by the fluorescent lighting and the stark white walls. No better color for a room full of men who are probably too careless to mind if they miss. I pick the nearest, clean urinal and position myself, trying to avoid the gaze of other men as they come and go. If it weren’t bad enough that I am about to explode, the button of my mother’s newly gifted trousers is refusing to cooperate and I am forced to pull myself through the zipper alone. Another moment and I would’ve ruined the damned pants anyway because a stream hits the floor of the urinal as soon as I’m free. I let out an involuntary sigh and placed a hand on the wall above my head, leaning into the relief.

When I return to the table, I am a more confident and empty man - delighted to see the Chardonnay has arrived. It is a vintage 1997 which ages me to feel way older than I actually am. But, Viloria seems pleased. She’s already halfway into her first glass when I seat myself across from her. “Nice choice. I love Chardonnay.”

“Only the finest for m’lady.”

She laughs and raises her glass, “Did you get a good look at this menu? And the prices! I can’t decide how I want to waste it more.”

“I got us cheese sticks,” I reach for my glass and take a sip, thankful to have room for liquid. “And after those, there will be another hundred dollars of food. Don’t worry, dear, it’s coming.”

“I’m just over the moon with excitement. Not every day a country girl is given the chance to partake in luxuries.” Her lips raise over the edge of her glass, then she takes another long drink. Together we have downed half of the vintage before the waitress returns with a plate of five golden battered dairy sticks - stacked like a pyramid with a side of red marinara sauce. We both eye the plate like a pair of hungry dogs and dig in as the woman stands at the end of our table.

She is silent for a moment, then clears her throat, “Will you be ordering an entree now, or…?”

I raise my head, moving the cheese into my cheek before I speak, “For the lady, the Japanese Wagyu beef two ways and for myself...the butter poached Alaskan Halibut.” Viloria doesn’t object to my order and continues to eat like a starving child as the waitress nods, grabs our menus, and walks away. I figure at least one of us will eat what the other does not like, but judging on how amazing the cheese sticks taste - I wager we both will inhale the food without really caring for any preconceived ideas about our palates.

“These are so good,” Viloria wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and reaches for the last stick just as I do. Our eyes meet over the plate much like they might over our shields if we were instead standing in the coliseum. “There’s more food coming… you can wait, can’t you?” She smiles and bats her eyes.

Innocence is the only weapon she really needs in order for me to lay down my sword and lean back in my chair. “Go ahead, I can wait.”

“Yes!” My girlfriend snatches the last stick and drowns it in marinara before she savors the damned thing in front of me, making me almost salivate. Pavlov’s dog wouldn’t want that stick more than I do now, but I’m a gentleman. Secretly, however, I fantasize about how things may have been had I been a dick. How delicious that might have tasted then, salted with the tears of my beloved. I laugh to myself, then look around at all of the other people enjoying their food; It definitely looks worth the wait. “So…” Viloria’s voice pulls me back to the table and I catch her on her phone, “It says here that the art exhibit will be featured in Halcyon Gallery. Looks nice.”

She turns the screen to show me a page of photos taken outside and inside of the location. I glance at them briefly, enough to admit that she is right, then turn my eyes to my silverware as she reads off a list of the artists showing alongside myself. I can’t say that I recognize any, even if I were fully listening. My attention is directed more at the table, or at all of the faces beyond that of my girlfriends. She doesn’t notice.

“Halibut here, and for the lady, the Wagyu. Anything else I can get for you?”

Viloria stops talking and tucks her phone beneath her thigh as our food is placed before us. “That will be all for now, thank you.”

“Please, do enjoy, then.” The waitress lifts the Chardonnay and fills both of our glasses, then resumes to helping others around us.

“A-mazing!” I glance down at my own plate and second Viloria’s enthusiasm. Admittedly, there is more plate than food, but it will for sure be the best thing I’ve eaten in over three years. Not that I don’t mind Ramen and pizza, but sophistication is something I have little patience for. Though, after my first bite of the fish, my mind explodes with a sudden wave of motivation to learn the art of cooking. It’ll pass.

Across the table, Viloria is halfway through her beef and side of mashed cauliflower when she decides to take a Chardonnay break. I can tell she’s had her share as the level of giggling increases but I won’t stop her; I’ve always loved the sound of her laugh. I - on the other hand - feel very little from my fourth glass of wine. It might be the practice from art school or my body mass index; either way, I pour myself a fifth and down it before returning to clear my plate.

The waitress returns to us not long after the bottle of Chardonnay is empty. “Will there be dessert today?”

Viloria and I are stuffed and we both groan with our hands about our waists, “Not today. I’ll pay the check.” I reach into my pants pocket and grab my wallet, then pull out five hundred dollar bills - laying them in the woman’s hand. She looks down at the money and nods her head, “I’ll be back with the change.”

“Wait,” I hold up my hand and call her after she turns her back, “Keep the change.” The woman’s face lights up with a smile and she bids us adieu before rushing off to the kitchen. I stand up from my chair and go round to help Viloria to the door. She stumbles only a few steps inside of the restaurant but she’s a wreck outside.

“Look at me. Drunk before two O’clock.”

“Looks like we won’t be returning to the road. So… what shall we do?”

“I know!” Viloria grabs my hand, even though I am far more stable to lead us safely. She tries her best to compose herself as we walk toward the street but I have to catch her a few times, and we pause at the pedestrian crossing through four lights before moving on. Viloria and I wander the streets, slowly sobering till we reach a large building made of glass and steel; an art gallery.

“Really?” I halt at the steps as my girlfriend tugs me forward.

“C’mon, we might as well look while we are here.”

Paint something well once and suddenly everyone wants you to paint everything. Share the name of a famous, skilled person and suddenly everyone thinks your life revolves around their talents. That is my reality. Not that I don’t like art, I just realized I liked it way more when it was a hobby. “Why are you suddenly so… Hell bent on making me face this?”

“What?” Viloria pauses and wavers a bit as she stares me down with a frown, “I just thought it would be inspirational to see just how bad some art really is. Have you seen lately what they’ve been hanging in places like these? We’re talking Preschool finger painting material here. C’mon!”

“Fine… but I won’t enjoy it.” Maybe a little - if she’s right. Who wouldn’t gain a little boost from seeing the success of something simple. I gather my feet and ascend the stairs with her, to the glass doors. Beyond, a young girl waits behind a large counter. She is busy texting on her phone as we enter and makes no move to rise as we approach. Beside her, a sign welcomes guests with the words: ‘Admission is free. We only take payment in the form of appreciation. Enjoy.’

“Free entertainment. My favorite kind.” Viloria pulls me past the counter and toward a large archway in the wall. Art is displayed on all four walls, some areas of the floor, and even the ceiling. There are oils, acrylic, watercolor, sculpture, pottery; anything someone was willing to label a masterpiece. My eyes go first to the paintings on the wall, then follow my girlfriend across the floor toward a large metal piece standing at the center of the room. At first glance, it appears to be a load bearing part of the building itself, but as I get closer I realize it is a large tree trunk sprayed with chrome. At our feet, the tree’s roots pry at the floor tiles, they too are painted. And, above us, the branches reach for the ceiling, tipped with green leaves. I’m moved by its simplicity and the message it represents while Viloria is more interested in the challenge it presents. “Quite a large installation. You think it’s the real deal?” She glances around us, ensuring that we are alone in the empty room, before reaching beyond a makeshift fence to touch the tree. Not stopping there, she knocks three times and calculates the authenticity based on the echo it creates. “Fake.”

“Because real life could never exist here.” I laugh as I move toward the left hand wall where a number of different paintings hang; all unknown to me. I recognize none of the names I see on the little plaques beneath each work and wonder if mine will also look anonymous in the eyes of its viewers. All I am able to gather is that Robert Hamilton likes to paint flowers and Rose Eden has a thing for landscapes in wild colors. I know nothing about them save for how they saw the world in the moment I see before me now. An art critic might argue that Robert was memorializing his sensitivity and Rose was revisioning nature. I, on the other hand, think Robert was simply a florist painting the first thing he saw and Rose was on acid, spinning in the meadow like that woman from The Sound of Music.

“Robert must be a funeral director, and Rose is a Hippie.” Viloria leans in closely to view the paintings, this time refraining from touching them.

“He’s a florist. But, you’re probably right about Rose.” My girlfriend turns to me and smiles widely. “How about that one then?” Her hand raises and a finger lands over a painting on another wall. We both walk over together and stop in front of what appears to be an abstract of a man against a background of spiderwebs.

“Clearly a self portrait of ...,” I lean in to read the plaque, “Emanuel who was in a tragic accident which left him with half a face. The other half was eaten by spiders, as depicted here.”

“I would’ve gone with blind pirate, but ok. We’re making headway here. And this one?” Viloria points to the watercolor next to it; soft hues showing an empty room with an open window. The only furniture is a single chair in the foreground which sits in a pillar of light from outside.

“I expected a cat to be seated there. It’s the puuuurrfect spot.” I make sure to roll my ‘R’ in order to give the illusion that I am purring and it does well in the audience - Viloria laughs.

“Yeah, I got nothing. It’s not that original.”

“Original? How about that one then?” I spot a wildly bold painting across the room. Between the painting’s color and size, it is easily seen from anywhere you stand. And when we get closer, the subject is even bolder still. Together, we stare at the oversized face of a woman staring in the mirror. Her forehead ends at the top of the painting and her collarbone reaches the bottom. There are strands of dark black hair which hang carelessly over her ears and a thick patch of bangs which shadow her eyes, beneath which a long trail of bleeding mascara runs to her chin. Written all around her on the mirror are derogatory words in various shades of what I assume to be lipstick. While the painting itself is well painted, the concept is one which has been widely used as a representation of the struggle between expectations and perceptions. I’m sure one like it exists somewhere in my studio, along the wall with my other rejections.

“Angsty.” Depressing. And true. I know Viloria can feel it too. She stares at the painting for a long time before nodding and moving on.

“Here’s some fantasy for you, Vin.” I walk over to where she has stopped in front of a large sculpted statue of a naked man with the wings of an angel and the bottom half of a horse; including a member the size of my forearm. It lies like a snake against the inner side of the statue's thighs. I’m not new to nudity in art. In fact, both of my parents went through that phase and, in art school, a lot of my projects dealt with naked models. This, however, is an absurd exaggeration likened in fairy tales; none of which I’d like to visit. Just the thought of a creature such as this coming upon someone in the woods makes me cringe.

“One word: Overcompensation.”

“Oooh, are you attacking your fellow artists’ manhood on this one?”

“I am. Clearly. I mean look at that thing!” I broadly gesture in the direction of the statue's obscene member and Viloria laughs.

“Funny. I didn’t think Jennifer was a typical male name,” She smiles.

“What?! No way a woman did this.” I lean in and read the plaque, only to realize that she is right. “Well, I think Jennifer needs therapy.” We both laugh together and wander the gallery till we are too sober to enjoy it, and leave. The girl behind the counter doesn’t so much as look at us as we exit back into the hall. Her fingers are busy typing away on her phone when we pass on our way to the front doors. Though, she is programmed to send us off, “Do come again.”

***

Viloria and I close ourselves off from the silence of the gallery and enter into a busy world outside. There are car horns blaring and kids shouting; all mixed with the static sounds of a larger city. I’m ready to go. “Should we head back?” We are both sobered up now, enough to make our way back home.

“Remember where we parked, by any chance?” Viloria glances down the sidewalk, both ways.

“Not a clue. But I’d guess it was somewhere in that general direction.” I raise my hand and point ahead and to our right. Luckily, it isn’t really long till we find her sedan waiting for us, but with a pink ticket beneath one of the windshield blades. Viloria grabs it with a groan and goes for the keys in her pocket. The doors click open and I slide into the passenger seat. The parking ticket is tucked in one of the cupholders closest to Viloria, probably where it will expire unless I take it - and I do, while my girlfriend is busy with the key in the ignition. I tuck the ticket away beside the envelope in my pocket and we back out slowly onto the main road. “So…” Viloria turns to me, “I may have another idea.”

“Another one? You’re burning me out here.”

“Don’t worry,” She turns onto the road which will take us home, then switches on cruise control, “You’ll like this one. But, it’s not until later tonight.”