Page 38 of Starrily
“You came here just to invite me to an event?”
He shrugged. “I was bored.” But he didn’t look at her, instead occupied by a speck on his shoe.
She wanted to go home and lie on the couch and eat some ice cream. Or did she? If she allowed herself to consider … Simon’s invitation didn’t sound bad. Ava had always said painting was relaxing, and she direly needed some relaxation.
“Let’s go.” She looked around for the black limo. “Where’s Stan?”
“We’re walking. Stan has the day off, and the art gallery is just around the corner.”
Althuro couldn’t stop gushing when Simon showed up, as if Simon surprised him and did him a great favor, not (at least Callie presumed) pay a great deal of money or pulled some strings to get this appointment. She looked around the gallery while Simon talked to the artist, and based on the place’s immaculate appearance and the quality of pieces, participating wasn’t open to the general public. Or, if it was, the spots had to be extremely limited.
Simon returned to her. “Let’s pick a painting, shall we? They’ll get our clothes ready in the meantime.”
“Painting—clothes—you know, at some point, you’ll have to explain this.”
“I thought I’d throw you in. You’re smart; you’ll figure it out.” He led her to a counter where a catalog was displayed. “You can choose. I’m told I’m severely lacking in recognizing the fine points of art.”
She frowned. “By whom, and why?”
He opened his mouth but paused. “Never mind. Just pick one.”
She leafed through the selection. She’d seen most of the works before, even if she didn’t know the name or the artist, and they ranged from classic portraits to abstract modern paintings. Callie stopped in the middle, inspecting, for a few quiet and strangely relaxing moments, a painting with swirly stars in the sapphire night sky. “This one.”
“Of course you’d choose Starry Night.”
“Hey, if you didn’t want to—”
“No, no.” Simon raised his hands in surrender. “I said you do it. It’s a good pick.”
She returned her gaze to the painting, sliding her fingers over the glossy paper. “The swirls … they look like pictures of Jupiter’s surface.” When she looked back at Simon, he had a soft smile playing on his lips—one that made her relaxed, comfortable; just like the painting itself. A smile that created a pocket of its own universe, and sucked her in—until she shook her head and reminded herself to start making sense again. “Uh, what’s next?”
They were directed to separate rooms to change into appropriate clothes.Appropriatewas debatable—Callie didn’t think much of the white jumpsuit she pulled out of the locker at first, but as she put it on, its tightness became very apparent. It wasn’t indecent, but it did hug the curves. They were allowed to wear underwear beneath it, but not normal clothes—easy to see why, since there was no way they’d fit. There was even a white cap provided, similar to those swimmers wore. Callie wrangled her hair into it and checked herself in the mirror. With the jumpsuit covering her feet and hands, only her face was visible.
If aliens ever came to Earth and were similar to humans, this is how she imagined they’d look like.
She exited the room through another door with a signThis way to The Canvas.Artists. The Canvas turned out to be a large room—bigger than her whole apartment—with windowless white walls and a peculiar smooth-carpet white floor permeated with something chemical. It wasn’t until she saw giant buckets of paint in the corner that Callie understood what “body art” in Simon’s description meant.
She looked down at her close-fitting jumpsuit, then at the floor, then back at the paints.
No.No.
“I don’t think they have my size,” Simon’s voice said from behind her. She turned and froze, unable to decide if she should look away or keep staring at him.
Forget the suits not being indecent. On him, it looked like a superhero costume over-exaggerating all muscles, only these jumpsuits didn’t have fake muscle implants, so each and every—very well-highlighted—curve of his body had to be his.
Focus on the fact that with that cap on, he also looks like an alien in a 60s sci-fi movie.
Unbothered by his attire, Simon walked past her to the buckets of paint and leaned down to pick up a copy of Starry Night to serve as their guidance.
Don’t look at his butt.
“I gather you figured it out.” He turned back to her.
“Uh …” she shook her head. “Yes. The floor is the canvas. We step in paint and walk on it to make a giant replica of our chosen painting.”
“Close.” He grabbed one bucket and approached her. “It doesn’t have to be feet. It can be any part of your body. Hence, the jumpsuits.”
“Weare the brushes.”
