Page 94 of When Ben Loved Tim
I cover my swelling erection. “Yeah, but not when you’re clean and I’m still dirty.”
“I like it dirty,” he says with a wicked grin.
“Later,” I promise, my eyes darting back to the painting on the wall. “Tell me about that.”
Tim follows my gaze. “Oh.” He walks to the dresser to take out clothes. “What do you think?”
“I like it. Is that the way you feel inside?”
Tim pulls on a pair of boxer briefs before turning to consider the painting again. “It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“The way things have to be.”
My stomach sinks as he continues to get dressed. I thought the painting represented his spirit trying to break free, but instead, it’s his way of walling himself in. And he chose to reinforce that barrier by putting it on display. “Where are the others?” I ask.
I’ve walked around the house, trying to find more paintings, figuring each would be a clue to his heart. The only other one I can find is of Jesus, nailed to the dining room wall, but I figure he prefers that over a crucifix. I wouldn’t have known Tim was the artist had I not asked, since it doesn’t feel like either of the paintings in our bedrooms. The style is too reserved, the colors drab.
“Other what?” Tim asks while poking his head through a sweater.
“Your other paintings. There must be more.”
He’s quiet a moment. I wait patiently, used to these moments, because they happen when he decides just how open he wants to be with me. And considering that I am currently laid bare before him, I’m hoping he doesn’t choose to shut me out.
“Do you want to see?” he asks at last.
I perk up. “Are you kidding? Yeah!”
Tim’s smile is short-lived before it’s replaced by an insecure expression. “Okay.”
I hop to my feet. “Show me!”
He laughs. “They aren’t here. We’ll have to go for a drive.”
“I’m ready,” I say. “Oh wait!” I grab the T-shirt I was wearing yesterday and put it on. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I’m still naked from the waist down, of course, which makes him laugh.
“I’ll get cleaned up,” I say before darting from the room.
I take the quickest shower of my life, although I make sure to be meticulous, because I’m definitely up for a second round later. We haven’t goneallthe way since the night under the Christmas tree, but we both want to again, when the stars align. Not now. I’m too excited to learn more about him. I figure he’ll drive us to a storage unit where he keeps all his paintings, so I’m surprised an hour later when we pull up to an office building.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“My dad’s business,” he says, glancing around the parking lot after we get out of his car. We’re the only ones here, judging from all the empty spots.
“Does he sell art?” I ask in confusion.
“No. I wish. That would be awesome.” Tim leads the way to a glass door. “He sells medical supplies.”
I watch him fish out a key. Once the door is unlocked and we’re inside, he taps a code on the alarm system, causing a high-pitched whine to fall silent. I glance around the reception area, expecting to see his paintings on the wall. And while art hangs there, it clearly isn’t his, since the style is much too blocky and basic. He leads me deeper into the office. We walk through a large open room filled with rows of cubicles, which in the darkness, remind me of crypts in a graveyard. When we reach the other side, Tim stops before a door with a sign that readsConference Room C. The windows along the wall to either side are covered with paper, making it impossible to see in.
“I used to paint at home,” Tim is saying as he unlocks the door. “Our old house had a basement. After we moved here and I got paint on the guest room carpet, my dad came up with this as a solution. I like it better.” He opens the door and gestures for me to enter.
I do so, peering into the gloom until fluorescent lights flicker on above. And it’s like we’ve been transported somewhere else. The room doesn’t feel like an office at all. The toes of my shoes are on one of many drop cloths that cover the floor. Half a dozen easels are set up, each with a canvas in a different state of completion. As for the paintings themselves, they’re everywhere. Some are propped up and on display. Most are leaning against the walls in stacks. Tim walks over to windows on the exterior wall and opens the blinds to let in natural light. Then he turns to me with an uncertain expression.
I begin to focus on the art instead of the room, feeling like I’m romping through the valleys of his imagination. Some things I recognize, like the volcano that is a patchwork of purple and gray stone, the sky behind it having caught fire with orange, red, and magenta. On an easel next to it is a sunbaked woman wearing large tinted glasses, a tower of hair balanced on her head. I’m drawn to it, since most of his paintings lean toward the abstract, but this one is surprisingly lifelike.
