“I’d like you to be my girlfriend. I wanted it six months ago. I want it now. You don’t have to tell me an answer now. I’m only asking you to think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She squeezed his hand and smiled. It felt good to do this, to hold hands across a table in public where anyone could see them. Not that anyone was paying them any attention. At work Ian was money, suits, clean-cut—the boss-man—while she lived in her dirty work clothes, her welding helmet and made eighteen bucks an hour. Worlds apart...but not here, not now. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was all sexy and disheveled from his gray knit winter hat and hers was equally disheveled from being bounced around his bed. They looked like the sort of people who’d hang out in a pub on Mount Hood. They looked like a couple. She liked it. She liked him. She’d been in love with him for a long time. Nice to finally like him a little bit, too.
The waitress came by and cleared off their plates and refilled their water glasses. Ian ordered the Oregon blackberry cobbler for two, and told the waitress “thank you” and “no rush.” Flash had waitressed to pay for her art classes when she was eighteen and nineteen and ever since she’d judged people based on their behavior toward waitstaff. Ian passed that test.
“You ordered dessert?” she asked. “After all that food?”
“Haven’t eaten since breakfast. You’re going to help me, right?”
“I’ll try but no promises. Why did I eat all those fries?”
“Because they serve Portland ketchup here.”
She pointed at him. “That’s right. It was either eat the fries or drink that stuff straight from the bottle.”
“I knew you’d like this place. It’s the sole reason why I moved up here. The snow and forest and skiing and all that boring shit had nothing to do with it. Just the food.”
“You’re a wise man, Ian Asher.”
His eyes widened.
“What?” she asked.
“Sorry. Still can’t get used to you being nice to me. It’s jarring.”
She winced and sighed. “Yeah, I was pretty rough on you. You deserved it but still...maybe I overdid it a little.”
“It’s fine,” he said. He picked up his napkin and started shredding it. A nervous habit? She liked that she could make him a little nervous even after the snort-laughing incident. “But I have to ask...you’re really quitting because you want the new job, right? You aren’t quitting because of what happened between us?”
“I’m quitting because I want the new job,” Flash said. “Here’s the thing...that menorah I made for you—it’s the first time I’ve sculpted anything in months. I’ve been tired from work, distracted, depressed, discouraged, angry... I didn’t have the emotional or physical energy to do any sculpting. It’s a horrible feeling to be cut off from the one thing that makes me feel like a real human being.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been in such a bad place.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It isn’t?”
“Well...not entirely your fault. I’d be lying if I said the breakup wasn’t part of why I’ve been in a bad place. But there’s a lot more to it. I’ve had an installation up at the Morrison Gallery in Portland for six months and I haven’t sold a single piece. Not one. It’s not like I do the sculpting for the money. That’s not the point. The point is that when someone buys your art, it’s validation. You draw a picture for your parents and they put it on the fridge because that’s what parents do. Doesn’t matter if it’s the drawing of your house and your trees looks like cat barf, Little Junior drew it so it goes on the fridge. But when a stranger, a total stranger, plunks down ten thousand dollars on a sculpture you made, it’s better than anything. It’s better than sex.”
“Better than sex?”
She nodded. “A lot of people on this planet get laid. Not that many people on this planet can sell their works of art for ten thousand dollars or more.”
“That’s true. I just got laid and I can’t sculpt to save my life.”
“It’s my life’s work, being a sculptor,” she said. “Having your entire life’s work validated...it’s the single most important thing to me. Art is my religion.”
“I’m not an artist but I kind of understand wanting that. One
of Dad’s good friends owns a huge construction company in Seattle. He tried to hire me out from under Dad. Offered me a big raise, big office, all that. I had to turn it down, otherwise Dad would have a heart attack, but it was one of those great moments when you realize you’re genuinely good at what you do. This guy wasn’t my father. I’m not his son. And he still looked at my work and said, ‘Yes, this is the guy we want and I’m willing to risk a thirty-year-old friendship to have Ian Asher come work for me because Ian Asher is that good.’ It was validating.”
“You get it.”
“I get it,” he said. “So... I guess you won’t let me buy one of your sculptures from the gallery?”
“If you did, I would never see you again,” she said, meaning every single word of it.