Joel shrugged. “You’re probably good to play it safe, mami. You just know it’s my favorite. I love seeing it up.”
“That’s just because you’re a pervert,” I said teasingly, resting my head on his shoulder with a smile.
“How can I be a pervert for body parts I don’t even like?” he said and kissed the top of my head. Joel was gay, and he enjoyed the painting’s sexuality for totally different reasons, but I liked to give him a hard time about it, anyway. “Go make yourself beautiful; I’ll get everything finished down here.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, yes, go!” he said, shooing me toward the front door. “Time is wasting.”
My apartment was upstairs, above the studio space, a small, open-plan place with just enough room for me to sleep and relax. Even though I had some room downstairs to paint, I couldn’t stop myself from keeping one corner of the apartment for work, and glanced with longing at my current, unfinished work sitting silently on its easel. Being an artist very often meant doing work other than creating art, and some days, I found it very hard to accept—but the pile of past-due bills on the counter wouldn’t be ignored, either. It wasn’t like I had a real choice. It had to be done.
Less than an hour later, I returned to the gallery wearing my best dress and jewelry. It was a dark blue dress, cut in a vintage style with a high, tight waist and circle skirt that made my thin, pale legs seem even more doll-like. A square-cut bodice and thick straps completed the look. I let my long, shiny black hair stay down, but used a tiny faux diamond barrette to pull it away from my face. An equally delicate diamond on a white gold chain dangled from my neck, a gift from my grandma when I moved to the big city to try and make it as an artist. I wore it every time I had a showing. Simple black kitten pumps and some red lipstick polished off the clean but effective look I had worked hard to perfect over the years.
Joel had come through, as he always did, wrapping up the tasks to get the night off to a perfect start. The gallery lights had all been properly adjusted and calibrated, arranged to bring out the light and color of each work. At the rear wall, a small table draped in an elegant black cloth was stacked with an expensive array of exotic appetizers, and three bottles of chilled champagne aside clean crystal classes which were waiting to be filled. Very softly, almost indiscernibly, Golden Age jazz music played from the overhead speakers.
I had to stand there for a moment, just taking it all in with a big, deep breath and a smile. In moments like this, it seemed like all the terrible struggle of the artist life was worth it. Moments where I could stand and look at a sparkling gallery full of my work, all this pomp and circumstance to present it, all this beauty. It was so much work, but nothing made my heart happier. It made me feel like a real, bona fide artist. Joel would argue with me that I had been one of those for a long time—since I sold my very first painting, back in our hometown—but I don’t think he understood how easy it was to feel like a fraud in this world.
As my heels clicked along the hardwood floor, Joel came out from the back of the gallery with one of the floor sweepers in his hand, ready to give the hardwood one more dusting.
He gasped and smiled when he saw me. “Oh, honey, you look like a princess! Go on, give us a twirl.” He wound his finger in demonstration.
Rolling my eyes but smiling anyway, I obliged him, and admittedly did feel very princess-like as the blue fabric of my knee-length dress spun around me. Joel cheered me on, making me blush.
“Okay, okay, show’s over,” I said, looking at my watch. “We only have about ten minutes left.”
“Dios mío, I didn’t even realize,” Joel said, as he rushed with the sweeper to the front of the gallery. “Did I forget anything?”
I took a quick tour around and didn’t see anything amiss. Joel finished up sweeping the floor with only minutes to spare, and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before heading into the back room to get changed for the evening. While I waited for both him and my guest, I paced the gallery once again, eyeballing my paintings, whispering his name under my breath.
“Sheikh Rafiq Al-Zayn, Sheikh Rafiq Al-Zayn….” I turned with a whimper to Joel as he breezed past me to put the sweeper away. “These private exhibitions always make me so damn nervous, Joel. At least in a crowd, the pressure isn’t entirely on me.”
Joel stopped and turned back, dropping the sweeper on the floor. He opened up his big arms to me and held me in a tight, warm hug. Instantly my nerves started to calm.
“You’ve done this a hundred times, mami, and for all sorts of rich and powerful people. They love you! Look at you. You are a charming flower they want to put in a vase and take home. Tonight will be no different.”
“You’re the charmer,” I said. “Thank you. I don’t know how I would do this without you.”
“Try the hummus before he gets here and eats all of it—it’s incredible.” Joel winked at me and picked up the sweeper, disappearing into the back room.