I wipe my hands on my apron grabbing my phone checking it to see that Cassie my manager called me twice I roll my eyes knowing she is probably calling to tell me to come to yet another boring party at a art studio to let a bunch of people critic my art while I drink a whole bottle of champagne by myself talking to the bartender at the open bar. I go to my contacts pressing Cassie's ID letting my phone ring several times before she finally picks up.
"Good Afternoon, Rory!" Cassie chirps into my ear.
"Good afternoon, Cass," I replied.
"Okay so I know you hate these parties but this might be the lift you have been looking for!" she says seriously but I can hear the excitement in her tone. "I might have finally found someone willing to back your name! You'll finally be able to sell you art for what it is actually worth, Rory!" I smile to myself knowing how hard she has worked for this.
"I'll be there," I say back while putting all my paint dishes in my sink before I start putting caps on all my paints.
"Good! 7 o'clock sharp! Mr. Atwood does not like tardiness so please be on time, and cocktail formal," she says.
"Got it. 7:01, jeans and a t-shirt, and don't bother to shower!" I tease.
"Rory, this is serious!" Cass whines.
I bite back the laugh that threatens to escape my lips, " I know, I know, I will be there," I say, "Gotta go, see ya later babes." I hang up getting my art studio apartment cleaned up before I go shower to remove the paint that covers my hands and arms.
I watch as different colors mix together on the white marble tiles of my shower, I
I bite back the laugh that threatens to escape my lips, " I know, I know, I will be there," I say, "Gotta go, see ya later babes." I hang up getting my art studio apartment cleaned up before I go shower to remove the paint that covers my hands and arms.
I watch as different colors mix together on the white marble tiles of my shower, I let my thoughts wander to my mother and then to my brother who I haven't seen since my mothers funeral. I shake the negative thoughts from my head letting the steamy hot water wash any of the lingering sadness from my skin before finally getting out. Getting ready is a breeze, I brush through my waist length raven colored hair that falls completely straight. I do two small braids at the top of my head before letting them feed into a high ponytail, I do some simple light shadowing of my eyes to make them seem bigger and more doll-like. I add a bit of mascara and lip gloss before moving to my closet, thumbing through my dresses looking for something to wear. I finally settled on a silver sparkly long sleeve romper, its a simple design with a low dipped v-neck. The sleeves sit right on the edge of your shoulders showing off your neck and part of your chest in a way that makes you look Sophisticated and sexy at the same time. The shorts reach a little below my butt sitting loosely on my body in a way that counter the tight fitting top that hugs your frame nicely while also complimenting the sleeves that are slightly puffed to add dynamics and shape to the romper. I pair it with dangly diamond earrings and a pair of black heels with the matching black clutch. I put my lip gloss, phone, ID, and a few other things into the tiny clutch before grabbing my black coat before checking the time. It is a quarter till six so I send a text to Cassie asking for the address which she sends close to 20 minutes later.
I head out into the chilly late fall afternoon of New York, I hail a cab giving them the address before mentally preparing for the next 4 to 5 hours during my 53 minute drive to the art gallery gathering. I hate social gatherings, my mother and I would always go and sit in the corner and guess what kind of people were around us and what they were talking about. It was a type of game for us, and now it just hurt to think about the good times I had with her now that she's gone.
When we finally arrive I pay the cabby and get out, I let my eyes scan over the people outside looking for Cassie until I finally spot her waiting by the door with her phone against her ear as always. Her petite frame is covered by a gorgeous black jumper number that makes her look so sophisticated and elegant. The way the bottoms hug her legs nicely defines her small curve and the top is a long sleeve v-neck that has a much more modest dip than my own outfit. She is wearing red heels and her blonde hair is done in a messy low bun that gives her that professional look.
She looks up a smile spreading out on her thin lips. She waves me over before ending the call right as I am almost there. She hugs me telling me I have to get out of my loft more often, to which I roll my eyes at. We walk inside where we are greeted by a coat man who takes Cassie and I's coats. When we finally get to the main area I do a once over taking in all the faces trying to calm my nerves. I feel as though someone has tied a knot in my stomach. I feel sick, I hate social situations. I snatch a glass of what I soon learn is rosé off of the trays some servers are handing out before letting Cassie drag me off to 'socialize' which is really just Cassie talking while I sit and nod.
"Mr. Atwood" Cassie calls, shaking the hand of a man a little older than her and I. He has the brightest color of green irises that I have ever seen, I imagine painting those sharp eyes and the stern look on his sharply sculpted face. He's probably on the taller side of 5'11 to 6 ft. He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the sides faded, the top is longer neatly slicked back in a professional style. His shoulders are broad, you can tell he takes care of his body. I down my glass before he holds his hand out to me to shake, "this is my clie- Aurora St. Claire" I interrupt shaking his hand with a firm grip.
" It's a pleasure to meet you Ms. St. Claire" ,he pauses before continuing his sentence, "Alexander Atwood" his voice is smooth like silk that sends delightful shivers down my spine "the sample portfolio Ms. Algaliero sent me, are they self portraits?".
"No, they are mostly of my mother, she passed away a couple years ago" I reply coldly, my demeanor returning rigid like before.
"I am very sorry for your loss, you have an incredible resemblance to her" he says "I think your art is amazing the way you capture the life in your subjects, it is just true raw talent and skill for this profession" a soft smile tugs at the edges of my lips.
"Thank you, Mr. Atwood," I replied, "do you paint?" My question seems to catch him off guard but he quickly recovers.
"I used to… Not anymore though, I was in an accident and it messed up my hand," he replies, " now it shakes too bad to paint anything" he gives me a sad smile that I return tenderly.
Him and Cassie settle into a conversation. I replace my champagne, Cass tries to include me but I eventually slip away. I down several more glasses of champagne before finally deciding to go look at the art.
I followed the hallway that fed into a room that was labeled portraits. There are dozens of portraits in all beautiful designed styles ranging from that of neoclassical, abstract expressionism, to Renaissance style art. But out of all of them there is one that stands out among the rest: a picture of a woman, a small baby in her arms. She is painted to stare at the baby with her deep aquamarine colored irises, flecks of gold swimming in pools of blue green. Her eyes are doe-like with a rounded shape making her look innocent and young, thick black lines lined her eyes in a way that makes her eyes pop. She has a small bud-like nose, you can tell the painter was a realist by a small bump in the bridge of her nose -something most artists would edit out to portray perfection- most wouldn't appreciate the small details like that but I on the other hand appreciate the beauty of flaws. Golden coffee brown hair twisted into light natural curls that cascades down her back and slightly into her face I can imagine her tucking the rogue curls behind her ears. Admiration and love are the emotions that are plastered on her beautiful doll-like features, a soft smile playing on her ruby colored lips that fade into a lighter color in a natural human-like way. Her head is tilted down with her eyes fixated on the baby in her hands. A small babe maybe a month or two old with deep jaded green eyes, gold and brown intermix the jade color. It's little eyes hold joy looking back at its mother, a toothless lopsided smile painted onto its much paler pink lips. The little human shares his mothers soft curls but the color of his hair is many shades darker leaning more towards the color of rich dark chocolate. The child is wrapped in a light blue blanket that at one point would have swaddled the child but the small babe must have wiggled and wiggled causing such a struggle until he was able to get one of his tiny hands freed. He's reaching up towards his mother almost like he is trying to grab hold of her and never let the woman go. I think of the beautiful woman and her child and the way their portrait represents so many young children and their undeniable love for their mother's. Is there any greater love than that of what you feel for your mother? She carries you while god or whomever it is that is out there sketching your body into existence, simultaneously while destiny starts to write the story of your life. There is something beautiful about the love between mother and child. Something so unfathomably undeniably beautiful and poetic that not a single person could deny. Some may claim that I am wrong that they despise their mothers but it is that very statement that proves me to be right. There is no stronger bond than that of the love between a mother and child, but to oppose there is also no more painful betrayal than that of the betrayal of a mother to it's child. And therefore there is no stronger love than that of a mother and child but also no stronger hate. Because for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction that creates the very equilibrium of the universe that is the very foundation in which we live our lives.
"My Grandmother painted that of my mother and I shortly after my birth," a deep voice says echoing about the sleek walls of the gallery. I turned to look over my shoulder to see Mr. Atwood's eyes train on the picture in front of me.
"It's beautiful," I replied, turning my body to look at him.
"Yes, I suppose it is," he retorts in an airy tone, his eyes looking as though they are somewhere else remembering a time now forgotten to all but him. The soft smile on his lips resembles that of the one on his mothers in the painting. His eyes flicker to mine holding my gaze for several seconds that feel more like years. We stare into the depth of each other's eyes having a silent conversation, most people would just think we were crazy. But I can see the sadness in his eyes the same sadness I have had in mine so many times before. Our eyes tell the story we do not believe we are strong enough to speak out loud, I finally divert my gaze while taking a sip of my drink.
"How'd she die?" I ask.
"Cancer, when I was 16," he says looking away to the floor as if his feet were the most interesting thing in the world.
"Car accident… I was in the car with her, the doctors said that she was brain dead and there was no point of keeping her on life support so my older brother… He pulled the plug," a lone tear escaped cascading down my cheek. "I held her begging her to come back to me until Mateo pulled me off of her," I explained brokenly.
"She signed a DNR when she got diagnosed she said if it was her time then let it be, she passed in her sleep her heart couldn't take the radiation and the stress anymore it just gave out on her," he says.
I look at him with sad empty eyes that he returns, and for the first time since my mothers death I felt as if someone truly saw me. His eyes gazing back at me with the same emptiness of my own. Sharing with me a pain not many people understand. Yet pain him and I share.