Doctor Next Door

Edgar dramatically clapped a hand over his heart and frowned. “Surely this must qualify as elder abuse.”

“I’m sure you’re not that old,” I retorted with a quick roll of the eyes.

“I’m thirty.”

“Twenty-seven. Did you grow up around here?”

“Sacramento born and raised,” he said proudly. “You?”

“Janesville. Ever been?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admitted. “Was that where you studied art?”

I shook my head. “I actually attended the Art Institute of California in San Francisco for a little while. After I graduated, I returned home.”

“What kind of art do you specialize in?”

“I dabble in a little bit of everything. I was really into digital art for a while there.”

“Lots of practical applications for it,” he hummed.

I shrugged a shoulder casually. “I’ll admit that my fallback plan was to work as a freelance designer.”

“But that’s not where your passion lies, is it?”

I smiled a bit wider. “Exactly. There’s just something about working with physical materials. I like to get my hands dirty.”

Edgar swallowed, the tip of his tongue darting out across his lower lip. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I giggled. “I primarily work with paints.”

“What kind of things do you paint? Still life? Portraits?”

“Edgar the Third, are you by chance interested in art?”

“I dabble,” he teased with a grin. “I read more about it than actually participate, though.”

I blinked, completely surprised. Edgar didn’t come across as someone interested in art. “What was your favorite period?” I tested him.

“The Renaissance, of course.”

“Who’s your favorite artist? And don’t say Da Vinci. Everybody says Da Vinci.”

Edgar stroked his chin in a dramatic display of reflection. “For me, it’s a toss up between Michelangelo and Paolo Veronese.”

My mouth fell open in shock. “Seriously? Paolo Veronese?”

“What? Did you think I was talking out of my ass?”

“Well… A little bit, yeah. Most guys I meet don’t know anything about the fine arts.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I really am a man of many mysteries.”

“What’s your favorite work by him?”

“Probably The Wedding at Cana.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I’m a fan of his use of bright colors. It’s refreshing.”

I smirked and stifled a laugh. “That’s kind of the point of the Renaissance.”

Talking with Edgar, even for a little while, was starting to make me feel a lot better. I’d almost completely forgotten about the gallery cancellation when we started diving into color theory. We wound up going through an entire bottle of wine together, easily diving deeper and deeper into our conversation. I couldn’t ignore the spark in his eyes, the way my heart skipped a beat whenever Edgar laughed or held my gaze. By the time we finished our lunch together, Edgar’s cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed pink. I told myself it was the result of our many drinks. But deep down inside, I secretly prayed that maybe the cause was something more pleasant.

“Are you working on any new projects right now?” he asked after he very graciously paid for lunch.

“I’m working on something,” I said wryly. “Do you…” I sucked in a quick breath, trying to steady my pulse. “Do you maybe want to come up to my apartment to see? I don’t normally ever show people my stuff until they’re complete, but…”

“I thought you’d never ask, Miss Flowers.”

9

Edgar

Daliah had only moved in a few weeks ago, but her apartment looked akin to a warzone. There were still several boxes stacked haphazardly along one wall, and all of her poorly constructed Ikea furniture had been positioned about the space seemingly at random. There was no thought or pattern to any of it, no organization or way of keeping track of things. Mismatched curtains hung from the windows, the small love-seat –which was for some reason facing the open kitchen area– was covered in an uncountable pile of throw pillows, and art supplies could be found left, right, and center. Unlike my apartment, which was always spick and span, Daliah’s apartment was a free –much like her personality.

But what caught my eye the moment I stepped foot past the threshold wasn’t the mess. Normally, such clutter would bother me to no end. I was too distracted, however, by the massive canvas that was propped up on her living room wall. The canvas held itself up at a slight angle. If it stood straight, the top of its frame would no doubt scrape against the speckled ceiling. I stood before the canvas and stared in awe. The painting wasn’t yet complete –the bottom left corner was still blank and lacking pigments– but there was more than enough there to get a sense of the bigger picture.

The painting was beautiful. It was a painting of a woman in a flowing red dress dancing to her heart’s content. I had no words to describe Daliah’s style. My best attempt would be to label the work of art as surrealism meets water color meets gold leafing. This unique combination didn’t do the art any justice, though. The subject of the portrait practically popped off the surface of the canvas, bold and harsh brushstrokes perfectly capturing motion and life. But despite the details that grounded the work, there was something otherworldly about the woman within the frame. Colors bled into one another seamlessly, giving the subject an almost ghostly resemblance. The background was intricately and painstakingly etched in gold, delicate patterns swirling around the dancing woman to further give the scene a sense of warmth and passion.