The Girl in the Painting

Me: What song should I play next?

Indy furrows her brow as she looks down at my phone, and then her tiny smile grows. Her fingers tap across the screen until the phone in my hand buzzes.

I glance down to see a message from her.

What are you in the mood for?

What am I in the mood for? The real answer? Pretty much anything she wants to throw my way, but I don’t say that. If Indy knows how deep I already am with her, about the crazy thoughts I’m feeling, I’m confident she won’t stick around to find out anything else.

So I dial it back a few emotional notches and stick with something a little more fun and lighthearted.

Me: The Beach Boys.

A laugh escapes her throat when she reads my message, and her big blue eyes meet mine.

“What?” I ask through a smile, but instead of answering, she just shakes her head and types out another response.

You don’t really seem like a “Beach Boys” kind of guy.

Me: That’s blasphemy. I’m all kinds of laid-back and beachy.

Indy giggles and snorts, and my smile stretches until it consumes my face.

And instead of waiting for her response, I send her another text.

Me: What kind of guy do I seem like?

She reads the message, and without even looking at me, she responds.

An emotional, deep, broody artist.

Indy isn’t wrong. The last time I listened to something like the Beach Boys, I was probably eleven and cruising down the highway with my stepdad. That doesn’t mean I’m not open to turning over a new leaf. Open to having fun every once in a while.

Indy makes me want to have fun.

Me: You’re right. The Beach Boys are really more of an occasional thing. What would you recommend for someone who is an emotional, deep, broody artist, and a little bit of a dick?

She looks up, laughs, and takes the phone from my hands for a brief moment. Just as she slides it back into my fingers, the opening beats of her song choice fill my ears. It’s haunting and sweet and melancholic. It is a daydream and a nightmare.

And it is perfect for someone tortured. Someone who’s been through the wringer like me.

In fact, this isn’t a new-to-me song.

Gently, I grab my phone out of her hands, find the exact song in my library, and hit play.

Now, we’re both listening to a song named “Dust it Off.”

Indy looks up at me through her big, dewy blue eyes, and my breath gets tangled up in my lungs. She’s both shocked and awed, and this crazy connection between us burrows a little bit deeper.

I want to bask in this moment and stay there for a while, but the wheels of the train screech to a stop over the music flowing in my ears, and I know this is the stop. My stop.

Our stop.

I stand up from my seat and hold my hand out for her, maintaining the rhythmic trance between us the music has created.

She hesitates for a beat, her gaze jumping between my face and my hand, but eventually, she slides her petite fingers between mine and lets me lead the way.

We climb the stairs to the sidewalk and stroll until the very end of the song. Once the music bubble is broken, Indy lets go of my hand to take the earbuds out of her ears and hand my phone back to me.

I do the same with hers.

“So, uh, where are we going?” she asks at precisely the right time, and I smile.

“Right here, actually.” We’ve stopped in front of my favorite little coffee shop, and this is step one in my two-step plan.

The sign reads Not-So-Average Joe, and Indy squints her eyes up toward the sky as she takes in the building.

“You’re showing me coffee?” she questions, and her little nose scrunches up in the cutest fucking way.

I grin. “Do you not like coffee?”

“What? No.” She bends her chin into her neck and puts a concerned hand to her chest. “Are there people who don’t like coffee?”

“Maybe. But they’re not people I want to know.”

She laughs and glances back at the building again, her face a mask of confusion, and if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of disappointment. “Is this coffee shop really what you wanted to show me?”

“No.” I chuckle and shake my head. “First, coffee,” I add. “Then, I’m taking you to my studio.”

Indy

“Here we are,” Ansel says as he stops us in front of a brownstone in Greenwich Village.

The stairs are ornate concrete with a heavy black iron railing, and a mature tree shades us from the direct sun. It doesn’t look like an area where anyone would want to have a place of business because, for New York City, this is off the beaten path.

“Your studio is here?” I ask as he unlocks the door.