Love's Rendition
Part 1
by Tragedy88
E-Mail: Tragedy88@goplay.com
Disclaimers:
I started this in homage to the great characters in a certain TV show,
but it’s grown beyond that, and taken on a life of it’s own. You can decide if it’s ‘uber’ or not. It’s heavy Alt – hey I write the way I live
– so if you are underage, residing somewhere where it’s illegal or are simply
offended, read elsewhere.
Send
me a line, if you like it: Tragedy88@goplay.com
Chapter
One
Twice
I saw her in the park. She's
beautiful. At first glance she was
exceptional. I was almost overpowered
by her beauty, but it's really the little things. Her ears, high cheekbones, dark coloring and those powerful eyes.
I had my sketchpad with me this
afternoon, had brought it on impulse.
Now I found myself penciling in the straight angles of her face and long
lines of her body. She looked up once
or twice and I ducked my eyes away, to the trees on the side, as if I wasn't at
all interested.
What a lie. I'd thought of nothing else since the first
time I'd seen her. And what would I do
about it? Nothing. I could envision the conversation, or the
lack thereof. Her voice would be as
smooth and beautiful as the rest of her.
I would stutter hi back, shuffling my feet, looking at the ground like I
always do.
I was so intent on avoiding her and
not making my intentions obvious that when I looked back up she was gone. I blinked a few times expecting her to...
"Hi."
Oh my god... I looked up into blinding blue eyes. Her voice was deeper then I thought. "Hi." Somehow I managed not to stutter.
"You sketch?" She asked with a wave of her hand towards my
drooping notebook and falling pencil.
I grabbed hold tighter,
instinctively clutching the thin sketchbook to my chest so she couldn't see
herself looking back.
"Yes." I fumbled with
my pencil. "I sketch occasionally."
"You're an artist?"
The woman sat beside me with casual
grace. Everything about her was refined
and glamorous. "No," I
admitted the truth. I was nothing. I was no one but a waitress.
"May I see?"
Her hand was long, slim, and her
fingers were tapered. Piano player
fingers, my grandmother would have said.
What was I doing? My hands were
flipping the sketchbook away from my body without my permission. They were tilting it sideways so she could
see it in the proper light.
I barely registered her slow intake
of breath or the way her hand stopped an inch away from the pencil lines as if
she wanted to touch it but was afraid.
"Do you have more?" she
asked.
I looked into her face, to see if
she was kidding. She wasn't. There was nothing but sincerity and awe
behind her eyes. Awe? For what?
"Yes," I answered slowly. "I have
more." I flipped to the beginning
of the small sketch pad. If I'd been a
writer the pictures would have been equivalent to ramblings- hands and faces, trees and animals.
She smiled as she took the
sketchbook and flipped carefully through the pages. A study of hands, a page of eyes and noses and mouths. A page of trees in a field, with the city
far behind it. And more...
"Do you paint?" she asked softly.
I had to strain to hear her. "Yes." What was she asking? Did
she want to see them? I watched as she
flipped the sketch-pad closed and handed it back. She stood and straightened her blouse, reaching into her coat
pocket.
I was more disappointed then I cared
to admit. I looked back down at the
book thinking that I shouldn't have shown her.
That I wasn't nearly as good as I hoped.
"Here." The woman was holding out a small business
card. "This has my number on
it. I've got to get back to work, but
I'd like to see more of your work."
I could only blink in surprise. To hide my astonishment I glanced at the
card held tightly in my shaking hand. Allison Parker. 555-2934. Parker and Wahbash Studios. "Okay," I said lamely.
I looked up into her face, blinded
by the full teeth smile she gave me.
"Call me and we'll set up a
time to meet. Have a good
day-" Allison stopped, mid
sentence.
"Grace." I stood suddenly, extending my hand. She shook it and turned to leave. I watched her go, long legs eating up the
pebbled ground. Holy shit...what do I
do now? Paintings. Paintings.
I need paintings to show this woman.
But what did she want to see?
"Grace!"
I turned hastily to the voice
calling me and realized it was Donovan across the street and I needed to get
back to work. My sigh was overly
dramatic as I gathered up my belongings and crossed the street, to return to a
job I hated.
•••
My
apartment was a large studio and I never could have afforded it if it wasn't
being rented by five other college students.
Since I'd found the place first I'd wrangled the studio loft. It had the best light and I did most of my
paintings from here. There were curtains
around the bed for privacy, but how much privacy could you really get with five
other people coming and going with friends and girlfriends or boyfriends?
I climbed the spiral stairs to my
room and threw the sketch-pad onto the drawing table, sending papers skittering
to the floor. So, I was a slob. I could admit that. I tore off my waitress uniform and climbed
into a pair of comfortable sweats and an old NYPD T-shirt.
Padding barefoot back down the
stairs to the kitchenette, I fixed some coffee and listened to see if anyone
else was home. Doug's soft snores came
from the room he shared with Michael and a low throbbing beat came from
Angela's room. So the two party animals
had either made it to class or were still out partying somewhere.
I took my coffee back up to the loft
and booted up my laptop, my one and only extravagance besides my paints and
canvases. I shoved some more papers off
the surrounding work area and made room to hook up the external mouse. The little red dot was annoying at best.
After half an hour of answering
e-mail and surfing the web I pinched the bridge of my nose tiredly and shut the
computer down. I rooted through the
mess on the floor and found my work skirt and the business card in the pocket.
I looked at it a long time before I
went back downstairs to use the communal phone. I had the receiver in my hand and the dial tone still buzzing in
my ear while I read her name and number enough times to memorize it. I couldn't do it, I couldn't call.
It wasn't right. Something about this was scary. Was it because I had a crush on the woman,
she was probably straight, and I'd be picking up the pieces of my broken heart
for years to come?
Ashamed, I hit the receiver against
my forehead and fumbled my fingers across the keypad. My heart rose into my throat as the phone rang, once, twice, and
was cut off on the third ring.
A male voice answered. "Ms. Parker's office, may I help
you?"
"Um, this is Grace. I um... talked to Ms. Parker
earlier?" I waited for something
more intelligent to come to mind. I
could almost hear him laughing at me.
"Ms. Parker is in a meeting,
ma'am. If you would please leave your
name and number I'll leave a message for her to call you back as soon as she
can."
"Ok." It sounded like a brush off. Oh well.
"Grace Jordan. She can
reach me at 555-4568."
"Thank you."
I quickly hung up the phone and it
took several more minutes before my heart stopped thumping against my ribcage
like a wild animal.
Hours passed and I resigned myself
to the fact that she wasn't going to call anytime soon. Maybe ever.
I engulfed myself in an oil painting I'd started two days before, not
even noticing Doug woke up and stumbled around the first floor to fix Frosted
Flakes and search for the remote.
Angela's stereo hit near deafening
levels and Julie and Torch came home.
The studio was alive with people and noise and more people arrived as
time passed. I whiled myself away in
the loft, painting and not caring that I wasn't a part of the fun. I never had been and I never would be. None of them liked me anyway.
The phone downstairs rang six times
before Doug finally answered it.
"Yo?" Doug's deep voice carried surprisingly well
over the throbbing music and shouting people.
"Yeah, hang on a sec."
He yelled without bothering to cover the mouthpiece, "Grace!
Phone!"
"Yeah?" I asked, irritated by Doug's shouting when
all he had to do was walk up the damn stairs and tell me I had a phone
call. I scowled at him and grabbed the
phone. "Hello?"
"Miss Jordan?"
The low timbre was just as I
remembered it. I could feel myself
blushing. "Speaking."
"My assistant told me you
called earlier, but I didn't get the message until a few minutes ago."
"You told me to
call." I pushed a finger into my
other ear so that I could hear her better.
"Yes, I did ask you to call,
and I'm sorry I wasn't there to answer the phone personally. A meeting was called rather
unexpectedly."
I could feel the curious eyes on me
and I hated talking with them all watching me.
"Where are you?" I
asked suddenly.
"At the office. I was just about to head home. Why?"
Why indeed. Just hang up. "How about we get some coffee and talk? I can't hear a damn thing."
"Me either. Sounds like you're having a party."
"No," I answered
abruptly. "Do you know where the
Starbucks is on Park?"
"Of course. I can be there in forty-five minutes."
"See you there." I hung up before she could change her mind
and back out, then I raced up the stairs and rummaged through my crates for a
clean pair of jeans and a bra. Ten
minutes later I rushed out of the studio with a large black portfolio captured
under my arm.
I hit the nearest subway and
transferred two stations down. I had
another half hour jaunt to Park St. I
clutched my portfolio nervously in my arms wondering why I was bringing it with
me. We were meeting for coffee, nothing
else. But Allison had admitted a desire
to see more of my work. With that in
mind I closed my eyes against the harsh, flashing lights and clacking wheels.
•••
(c) 2000, Tragedy88