Page 27 of Love Is an Art
His mouth opens a bit. He presses his lips together, and his brow furrows.
I would laugh if I wasn’t actually trying to pretend to be an artist. But this is good for figuring out what attracts him to dating an artist.
Zeke clears his throat. “They’re …”
He seems at a loss. It is difficult to find the right words to describe my masterpieces.
“Interesting,” I say.
“Or evocative.” Miranda enters the room, dressed in a 1950s party dress for her concert tonight. “Hi. I’m Miranda, Tessa’s roommate.” She puts out her hand to shake Zeke’s. “I’m sorry I can’t join you guys tonight. My band has a gig.”
“Good to meet you.” He shakes Miranda’s hand. “I’m Zeke. I’m looking forward to checking out your music.”
“Thank you.”
“We should go,” I say. We’ve spent enough time with my “art.” Zeke is still looking around our living room as if trying to take everything in.
“Hey, do you bike?” He points at the helmets hanging on hooks next to the door.
“Yes. After the subway, it’s my main method of getting around.” If I don’t count the car service home from the law firm when I work late. “Do you?”
“Yes. We should go for a bike ride sometime,” Zeke says.
“We can bike back,” I say. “We have an extra helmet. They were handing out free bike helmets at some city event.” I disappear into our closet to retrieve it from a shelf and then shove it into a backpack with my own. I grab my jacket.
“At least this time, I know we’ll be coming back together,” Zeke says.
“If you can keep up the pace,” I say.
He grins at me. “Challenge accepted.”
Zeke holds the door open for me, and we jog down the steps together.
Outside, the sky is this mixture of blue and purple, zipping with electricity—basically, the blue-hour vibe I’m trying to convey in my paintings. Couples stroll down the sidewalk, chatting about their evening plans.
We amble side by side down the street. His hand brushes mine as we walk closer together to pass another couple on the narrow sidewalk space between the flower enclosure and the brownstone stoop. We turn left on Central Park West to head for the C subway entrance. The light from a black lamppost outlines the silhouettes of the trees in Central Park.
We jog down the steps of the subway entrance, tap our credit cards, and slide through the turnstiles. Another set of stairs, and we’re on the downtown platform below. The clock shows two minutes until our train arrives.
A subway poster advertises the Whitney Biennial. “Have you seen that show?” I ask. “It’s good.” Thankfully, because of Miranda, attending art shows is not out of the ordinary for me.
“No. I should see it. Work has been crazy lately.”
“Is it constant, or are there times when it’s less busy?” It’s weird he doesn’t want to date a workaholic if he is one.
The subway arrives, and we get seats.
“It’s particularly busy now. I work for Capital Management. I manage our North American Fund, but I’m hoping to move to the venture capital side of the business. The guy who runs it is great. My other boss …” He shakes his head. “He’s difficult.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to move?”
“I think so. The venture capital boss has more power. I have to prove I’m worth it for him to use his political capital to make it happen.”
“Difficult bosses can make your life hell. I hate office politics,” I say. Office politics is one of the reasons why I want to leave White & Gilman.
“I didn’t think artists dealt much with office politics.”
I wince. I forgot I was pretending to be an artist.
