Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“Like the ugly duckling at the prom who takes off her glasses and woos the captain of the football team?”

“What?” I asked.

“Never mind. Let me show you one more area. I promise you’ll adore it. It’s super quaint and your artwork would do well there.”

“You’ve never seen my artwork,” I said.

“Oh, well. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Come on. I’ll show you.”

I could tell the agent was annoyed with me, and honestly, I was getting annoyed with her. Part of me felt bad because I couldn’t express what I wanted clearly enough, but it was important that I find the right place. I watched out the window, seeing the whole of San Diego pass by as we got onto the highway.

At least she was taking me to another area of the city this time.

This gallery was a lifelong dream of min

e, something I’d saved up for over the years, but it wasn’t just a gallery. I wanted to help the community with it and to breathe life back into a part of the world that had been abandoned by the landscaping beauty we thrust upon other neighborhoods, like the one we were driving away from. I wanted to draw people into my shop for classes and get-togethers to paint and find therapy for their soul. I wanted to reopen that part of myself again and allow people whose beauty didn’t have a chance to add to the world to finally be heard.

Be seen.

Be appreciated.

“Expressing the soul is important when nurturing the body,” I said. “My parents didn’t believe any of that, though. They thought a practical career would be better for me if I wasn’t going to marry right out of high school.”

“Oh, honey. I could not have handled that,” the agent said as we exited the highway. “Career-oriented all the way.”

“See? So, you get it. My parents wanted me to go to med school. Well, my father did. He was a pediatrician, an excellent one. My mother, however, kept trying to set me up with all the boys in her infamous circle.”

“Yikes. No thanks,” the agent said. “If my mother chose the men I dated, I’d be married to some overly sensitive soul who poured out his emotions into music or something like that.”

“See, that sounds like a wonderful man to me,” I said, smiling.

“Your parents helping you with this endeavor?” she asked.

“Nope. I haven’t talked to them since I dropped out of the pre-med program I was in. I took some art classes at the college behind their backs, and when they found out, they forbade me to take them. Said they wouldn’t pay for my education if I didn’t stop. So, I told them they wouldn’t have to pay for an education period and dropped out.”

“I like your style,” the agent said. “That’s shit they haven’t talked to you, though.”

“It is what it is. I’m chasing a dream that makes me happy.”

“Speaking of dreams, we’re here,” she exclaimed.

I took a look at all the shops lined up in a row. All the same cookie-cutter designs, with brightly-painted doors and intricate designs fused into the building. They looked exactly like the rest of the building we’d come from, except these were a tad bit smaller.

Apparently, this real estate agent had no idea what I was looking for.

“These little shops would be perfect for your gallery. They aren’t very wide buildings, but they extend back. You could line the walls going back with your artwork and then maybe have a little concession table—”

“No. None of these will work,” I said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside and take a peek?”

“No. They won’t work,” I said.

I heard the agent huff in frustration as she whipped the car around in the middle of the small street. Parents yelled at her as they clung to their kids, and I waved my hand and tried to apologize. This was going nowhere quickly, and all I wanted to do was go home and try again.

With a different agent this time.

We crept along the narrow street and slammed on our brakes as a man ran across the road. He was chasing after a ball his son had thrown out into the road, and I couldn’t help fixating on his arm. It was sleeved with a bunch of colorful tattoos, and I noticed the agent gawking at his arm just like I was.