Page 18 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ali had no response, and Soraya filled up the dead air with effusive praise. “Ricki, I was always jealous of Ali’s talent in class. Painting from live subjects is hard.” And then she leaned over and whispered into Ricki’s ear, “FYI, I’m polyamorous, too.”

“But… I’m not polyamorous,” said Ricki. She eyed Ali, who was shifting his weight between each foot.

“Now, what does that word mean, exactly?” asked Ms. Della.

“It’s when you enjoy several relationships at the same time, ma’am,” Soraya said.

Ms. Della cocked her head. “I declare. Well, no sin in being hot in the pants.”

And then, in that blunt way of elders who’ve decided their time would be better spent elsewhere, she squeezed Ricki’s shoulder and went off to find her driver.

Just then, Glenroy St. Jermaine clinked a wineglass with his massive cocktail ring. “Good people! Thanks for coming out to Community Art Night. As an aspiring legendary painter, I’m so inspired by all the artists here tonight. And now, without further ado, I invite y’all to unveil. And then sell your pieces like the rent’s due, y’all. ’Cause it is.” He cackled.

Clearly relieved to exit the polyamory conversation, Ali rushedover to his artwork. The three canvases were propped on a shelf, facing inward. Eyes bright, he turned each one around. And then everyone on his side of the room let out a gasp.

Ricki’s was the loudest.

There was one portrait of her. It was a lovely, uncontroversial nude, soft, pretty, and prim. The other two nudes were not prim, nor did they feature Ricki. Instead, the subject was a Kelly Rowland look-alike with sinuous braids. In one painting, she exposed full boobs and bush. The other was from the perspective of someone extremely close, looking down at her perfect naked body tangled in sheets. These pieces were dripping with sex.

In a rush, guests crowded the wall, taking iPhone pics and jockeying to be the first to buy one. Someone actually elbowed Ricki, trying to get a closer look at the braided bombshell. Both of those paintings sold immediately. No one even noticed Ricki’s portrait.

Abandoning her brilliant banana piece for a moment, Soraya made her way to Ricki. “I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just that Kiana, the model in the portraits… We painted her, live, in class. And they had a vibe. It’s clear Ali started sleeping with her. You deserve the truth.”

“I appreciate that,” said Ricki, and she did. She stormed over to Ali, dragging him by the biceps to a back corner of the bakery. And she snapped.

“I know we weren’t exclusive, but what happened to quote-unquote radical honesty?Thisis how I find out you’re sleeping with someone else?”

“My queen, she was just my model! We didn’t sleep together.”

“Tell another lie.”

“Okay, I only bedded her a few times. But it was in pursuit of art! Picasso was married and he had a muse. I didn’t want to tell you ’cause I knew you’d trip.”

“Oh my God, not you comparing yourself to Picasso. Who wasa raging misogynist, by the way.” Ricki dropped her face into her hands and began mumbling to herself. “Did I really try turning Ali into a real relationship? I need therapy. And I can’t even afford therapy!”

“Wow. Okay. I see you’re mad. I receive it. But I know you find other niggas attractive. Stand in your truth. Don’t be a hippocrip.”

Ricki glared at him. “Ahypocrite, you sentient Buddha statue from Urban Outfitters.”

She stormed away, furious at herself. The fact that she’d even considered being serious with Ali was proof that her dating instincts were trash.

Ricki made a decision. It was time to take a man break. Guys had never brought her anything but trouble, but the common denominator washer. She couldn’t be trusted to pick the right ones. She was wasting her own time!

Exasperated, Ricki grabbed her coat and headed for the front door. She was so lost in thought that when she felt a tap on her shoulders, she yelped with surprise.

In front of her was a small woman, barely five feet tall, probably in her late fifties. She was rocking a shag haircut with frosted streaks, a floral tunic, and teal eye shadow. She didn’t look like a Manhattanite. She looked like a cul-de-sac grandma from Scranton.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ricki. “Sorry, you scared me. Do… do I know you?”

“No,” she responded in an assertive voice with a vague Latin European lilt. Portuguese, maybe? Spanish? “I need that painting. That one. The one of you.”

Ricki frowned at the woman pointing at her portrait. Odd. No one had even remarked on the painting, and now this latecomer was demanding it? “Are you sure?”

“I repeat, I need that painting of you. Now.” The woman tookRicki’s right hand and pressed a roll of cash into her palm. “That totals five thousand dollars. Would that be enough?”

Mouth agape, Ricki gawked at the stack with all the subtlety of a Fantasia ballad.

“I… I’m not the painter.” She quickly scanned the crowd for Ali but couldn’t see him. “Also, it’s not worth this much! The sale price is one hundred fifty dollars.”

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