He smiles. “Good. Let’s get started.”
He pulls the sheet off of the center platform, revealing an array of vases, statues, and random items you might find in the back of an art gallery. He laughs. “At least it’s not a bowl of fruit.”
We laugh with him. Some people are already pulling out their tools of choice. The man next to me is unwrapping pieces of charcoal. The woman on the other side of me has chosen pastels. I’m not sure what to do. I look around at what everybody else has chosen, and I wonder if just using pencils is too simple.
Mr. Prince approaches me. Up close, I can see that his eyes are kind. “Are you having trouble deciding?”
I nod. “If having a piece on display is mandatory, then I want it to be my best work. But I also want to learn new things.”
“No matter what medium you’re using,” he says, “you can always learn new things.”
“What if it’s too simple? I’m usually a painter.”
He smiles. “I know. But I wouldn’t worry. When people are looking at art, and they enjoy it, I don’t think they’ll ask if it’s too simple.”
I’m left with that thought as he moves around the circle, glancing at what people have chosen and chatting with the students. Part of me feels like I’m being a coward for not wanting to try a new medium, but considering that this is my first formal art class, I think sticking to what I know might be the smartest move. I don’t want to get overwhelmed and turn this into a bad experience because I chose something that I wasn’t familiar with. Plus, if his offer stands, I can take more classes and learn about different mediums and expand my horizons after this workshop.
With that in mind, I pull out the fresh set of pencils from the case and get to work.
The workshop is three days a week, so I don’t have to finish this tonight, but I’m already in love. For the next three hours, I immerse myself in the exercise of art. I stare at the white marble column on the platform, I follow the lines of a clay vase, I start to fill in the details of flowers that sit at the bottom of everything.
It’s nothing too serious, but just enough to start seeing the shapes. It feels good, doing this again. I thought it had been a long time since I painted, it’s been even longer since I used pencils. By the time the class is over, I feel more calm and at peace than I have in years. Everything in the city seems to shine brightly as I walk to the subway to go home. A street musician plays the trumpet and it feels like the perfect soundtrack. I’ll never be able to thank Ellen enough for getting me the spot in this workshop. I didn’t think I missed art until I came back to it. Now that I’m here, I hope I never stop. Even, and especially, as a mother.
10
My good, brilliant mood lasts all through the night and into the morning. I roll out of bed feeling lighter than I have in ages, ready to suffer through work, and meet Christian and make a baby. Even the fact that I take a pregnancy test and I’m still not pregnant doesn’t manage to carve a dent in this perfect mood.
That is, the mood lasts until I look at my phone. We’re no longer texting in the app, and there’s a message from Christian.
Hey, I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m out of town on business for the next week. I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t know. I really apologize.
My heart sinks into my stomach. One of the things they tell you when you’re trying to get pregnant, is that consistency is key. People who have sex every couple days get pregnant faster than people who don’t. We’ve already had sex on one my fertile days of the month, but continuing it wouldn’t hurt.
But then again, maybe I’m already pregnant, and this won’t matter. But if not, this kind of sucks.
But then again—my mind flips back to the other side of the coin—this could be good. Only being with Christian a couple of times a month will lessen complications. Distance is good.
There is an immediate other thought, that maybe he’s doing this on purpose. That maybe he’s doing this just to screw with me. Maybe this was his plan all along, to literally fuck me over. As soon as the words form in my mind, I regret them. So far, Christian hasn’t done anything to make me think he’s not going to keep his word. Last-minute business trips do you happen, and I realize I have no idea what he’s even doing now. I don’t exactly have a right to be angry when he’s volunteering his time in sperm for me.