your work tomorrow, when I am allowed to come by and purchase your art?”
“...Yes.”
He ran his fingers through his short hair. “Perhaps I can make that work. Have a good evening, Ms. Starling.” For a moment, I thought he might bow. I was relieved when he only turned on a polished heel, exiting out the door.
Staring after him, I rubbed at my dirty cheek in wonderment.
Who the hell was that? Was I supposed to know him, like he implied?
I'd encountered some 'characters' in Los Angeles during my time, eccentric people didn't surprise me. But there was something especially odd about such a handsome, well dressed man complimenting me out of the blue.
And on top of that, offering to buy my art without asking the price?
Maybe he was super rich, I mused. Cracking my back, I sighed deeply, surveying my canvas. Will he really come back and buy it?
Smiling at the idea, I reached down and grabbed a paper tag. Taping it to the wall, I scribbled with a pen in my messy way, marking the unfinished canvas. It read: five thousand dollars.
It was childish to mark it so high, but it was a small bit of revenge for putting me on the spot like he had. It was crazy to think the piece would sell for that much, I wasn't stupid; I had plenty of other art to sell. I wasn't shooting myself in the foot, not really.
Leaning back, I eyed my work in progress. Worst case, he doesn't buy it, no one buys it, and I drop the price the next day to something realistic.
Still...
What if he really did buy it?
“No ,” I told myself, laughing. “Impossible.”
Grabbing the paintbrush, I went back to work.
****
T he morning of the gallery opening came suddenly.
To me, anyway.
Groggy after a late night of painting, I stumbled through my shower and cup of coffee before the reality finally hit me.
Tonight is my show. My show, mine!
Holy hell.
Dressing in the nicest gown I had—a long thing of perfectly smooth black that dipped low and showed off my shoulders and more—I did my makeup as best as I could with my shaking hands.
I was ready in a flash, spending the next few hours fidgeting around my apartment.
Finally, with a deep inhale of air, I gathered my purse and hurried to the gallery space.
The evening was warm, though I couldn't tell how much of that was from my nervous sweating. As I approached the gallery, I saw that the large front window was... different.
Within a few feet, I was able to tell what had changed.
There, in scrolling, curly letters, someone had painted the words, 'Gallery of Wings' and then below, 'the Art of Naomi Starling.'
Seeing this, my grin spread wide. Through the glass, the place was lit up like an orange sky, the red walls adding to the effect.
Pushing my way in, I saw Veronica bent over a table. The tall woman was busily setting up stacks of cards. She turned at the sound of me entering, and we flashed each other excited looks.
“Do you like it?” Veronica gushed, her hands clasping together.
I didn't need to ask what she was referring to, I just stepped forward and wrapped the woman in a tight hug. “Veronica, this is amazing! Did you set this all up by yourself?”
“Psh.” She laughed, disengaging so she could finish adjusting things on the table. “It was nothing! You did all the real work, the art looks fantastic.”
“Do you think I'll sell anything?” I didn't want to ask so bluntly, to reveal my fears, but in the moment it had simply slipped out. Biting my lip, I studied the woman's face for any hint of judgment. I only found her crooked smile.
“Naomi, honestly. You're worrying too much. I'm sure you'll sell something on your first night. Now, help me with these registration cards. We need them so people can bid on the art.”
Hunkering down, I helped her finish setting up.
We were just in time.
As the evening turned the outside sky into a navy bruise, the warmth of the gallery seemed to draw people in. They lined up, and they didn't stop. Quickly, the place was full.
People
“...Yes.”
He ran his fingers through his short hair. “Perhaps I can make that work. Have a good evening, Ms. Starling.” For a moment, I thought he might bow. I was relieved when he only turned on a polished heel, exiting out the door.
Staring after him, I rubbed at my dirty cheek in wonderment.
Who the hell was that? Was I supposed to know him, like he implied?
I'd encountered some 'characters' in Los Angeles during my time, eccentric people didn't surprise me. But there was something especially odd about such a handsome, well dressed man complimenting me out of the blue.
And on top of that, offering to buy my art without asking the price?
Maybe he was super rich, I mused. Cracking my back, I sighed deeply, surveying my canvas. Will he really come back and buy it?
Smiling at the idea, I reached down and grabbed a paper tag. Taping it to the wall, I scribbled with a pen in my messy way, marking the unfinished canvas. It read: five thousand dollars.
It was childish to mark it so high, but it was a small bit of revenge for putting me on the spot like he had. It was crazy to think the piece would sell for that much, I wasn't stupid; I had plenty of other art to sell. I wasn't shooting myself in the foot, not really.
Leaning back, I eyed my work in progress. Worst case, he doesn't buy it, no one buys it, and I drop the price the next day to something realistic.
Still...
What if he really did buy it?
“No ,” I told myself, laughing. “Impossible.”
Grabbing the paintbrush, I went back to work.
****
T he morning of the gallery opening came suddenly.
To me, anyway.
Groggy after a late night of painting, I stumbled through my shower and cup of coffee before the reality finally hit me.
Tonight is my show. My show, mine!
Holy hell.
Dressing in the nicest gown I had—a long thing of perfectly smooth black that dipped low and showed off my shoulders and more—I did my makeup as best as I could with my shaking hands.
I was ready in a flash, spending the next few hours fidgeting around my apartment.
Finally, with a deep inhale of air, I gathered my purse and hurried to the gallery space.
The evening was warm, though I couldn't tell how much of that was from my nervous sweating. As I approached the gallery, I saw that the large front window was... different.
Within a few feet, I was able to tell what had changed.
There, in scrolling, curly letters, someone had painted the words, 'Gallery of Wings' and then below, 'the Art of Naomi Starling.'
Seeing this, my grin spread wide. Through the glass, the place was lit up like an orange sky, the red walls adding to the effect.
Pushing my way in, I saw Veronica bent over a table. The tall woman was busily setting up stacks of cards. She turned at the sound of me entering, and we flashed each other excited looks.
“Do you like it?” Veronica gushed, her hands clasping together.
I didn't need to ask what she was referring to, I just stepped forward and wrapped the woman in a tight hug. “Veronica, this is amazing! Did you set this all up by yourself?”
“Psh.” She laughed, disengaging so she could finish adjusting things on the table. “It was nothing! You did all the real work, the art looks fantastic.”
“Do you think I'll sell anything?” I didn't want to ask so bluntly, to reveal my fears, but in the moment it had simply slipped out. Biting my lip, I studied the woman's face for any hint of judgment. I only found her crooked smile.
“Naomi, honestly. You're worrying too much. I'm sure you'll sell something on your first night. Now, help me with these registration cards. We need them so people can bid on the art.”
Hunkering down, I helped her finish setting up.
We were just in time.
As the evening turned the outside sky into a navy bruise, the warmth of the gallery seemed to draw people in. They lined up, and they didn't stop. Quickly, the place was full.
People
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