Page 22 of Dirty Money
Damn, Aullie thought as she shuffled toward the door, steeling herself for the incoming anger if it was Weston and disappointment if it wasn’t.
Inhale. Exhale. She opened the door.
There he was, in all his golden-haired, golden-eyed glory. He almost didn’t look human; his poise, his grace, the flawless structure of his face wrapped in perfectly clear skin. His sad eyes did nothing to soften Aullie’s glare or her seething rage.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Let me explain…” he said before he was cut off.
“Look,” she said, putting her hands up in sarcastic defeat. “I really don’t care anymore. You’re totally entitled to see other people and that’s great, you bagged a real looker, but that’s not my style, ok?”
Aullie placed her hand on the door to close it. He began to say, “It’s not what it looks like,” but she never heard the end over the sound of the heavy door slamming hard in his face. His words still mumbled through, so she walked away. She had no interest in hearing what Weston had to say.
She could still hear him outside, he must be close to yelling now, so she snatched her phone off the counter and plugged it into a clunky, dated sound system she sometimes used when she was painting.
‘Sorry neighbors’, she thought before cranking up the volume and pressing shuffle.
Angry guitar chords ripped through the speakers, a tiny bit louder than she had expected, but it was perfect. Aullie didn’t have a set taste in music, she liked to collect music with different moods to ensure variety in her inspiration with painting. Though anger wasn’t her top choice of painting feelings, she was extra thankful for the music and the message it was hopefully sending Weston.
That is if he was even still out there. She couldn’t hear him anymore and that pleased her.
I’m done, she thought, blissfully as she flittered around her apartment, collecting mugs and tidying away dirty laundry to a chorus of gritty screams and manic drums.Absolutely done!
Aullie fell into a rhythm as she cleaned her apartment. She kept her music loud, but the soundtrack in her head was just a slamming door on repeat. Over and over, she replayed the sad little look on his face and the heavy thud that closed him off and hopefully pushed him out of her life.
The emotional drama was too much, it was bringing out something in her that she wasn’t comfortable with and she was happy to have him gone.
Good riddance!
At least that's what she told herself.
An entire week passed. Each of her six shifts at work, Aullie panicked the entire night until it was over and there was no sign of Weston. She didn’t know if he had called or texted, she’d stayed strong and kept him blocked.
Truly, the time had been agonizing but every time she thought about talking to him and actually hearing him out, all she could see was that long swishy mane of strawberry blonde hair. That beautiful companion he’d had in the coffee shop. It was one thing to think he could do better than her and an entirely different thing to actually see it.
Thankful for a Tuesday off, it didn’t happen often, Aullie was preparing her things to go to school. There was an open studio and she felt like getting out of the apartment. Maybe the change of scenery would help her feel a little more inspired.
She loaded her heavy backpack into her car and drove there, thankfully, with no car incidents. The squealing had stopped and, even though it was probably a bad thing, she convinced herself that it was fine.
The trees were becoming bare, with the on-set of winter, even the last leaves clinging to the branches were brown and crunchy. The heater in Aullie’s Accord rattled, remedying the chilly interior with dry blasts of artificial hot air.
She took a deep breath and enjoyed the pleasant mood she was in. The first few days after she had slammed the door in Weston’s face, he’d been on her mind constantly, but as time passed she found herself thinking about him less and less. She missed him, sure, but she was happy to have her focus back on her art, where it belonged.
Aullie parked her car in the school lot, behind the small, boring brick buildings she did a fair portion of her creating in. She carried her backpack inside and swiped her student ID to open the studio door. The big, bright room had two walls of high windows which let in plenty of natural sun and several neat rows of fluorescents that clicked on with the motion sensor when she entered.
A scene constructed by one of the professors took up the center of the room, big swaths of colorful fabric draped over boards and boxes with an assortment of white objects on top like eggs and ceramic statues. A circle of dozens of paint-stained easels were cramped around the scene, all set at different angles. Aullie picked one at random; she liked her easels like she liked her men - tall and solid.
She began fiddling with the knobs, raising the tray to an appropriate height for the medium-sized canvas she had brought. She had thought she was alone, but once she was set up, another person came out of a small office tucked into the side wall and scared the crap out of her.
“Oh, hey! Aullie! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here. I was wondering why the lights were on.” It was her teacher’s assistant for her advanced oil painting class, Gerald Woodley.
He was only a few years older than her, about the same height, with thick black glasses and a full head of curly black hair. She could see how someone else could find him attractive, he had that sort of androgynous, hipster-like vibe that girls seemed to like, but he definitely wasn’t her type.
“Hey Gerald,” she said, still trying to slow her startled heart rate.
“I don’t usually see you on Tuesdays,” he said.
“Yeah, had a random night off work, so I just figured I’d get some painting in.”
