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I snap a few pictures of the colors and send them to Patrick with a smiley face. Me: What do you think? Patrick: I think I said no pink. Me: The one on the left is salmon. The right is coral. Patrick: Those are uppity ways of saying pink. Me: Correctly identifying a color is not uppity. It’s my line of work.
Why didn’t I call her? You don’t let people take care of you.
I feel this in my gut.
Oh, I figured out what was wrong with your car, by the way.� “Oh yeah?� she asks brightly. “It’s an old piece of shit.� “You’re an old piece of shit.�
I wake up to half a dozen men in my bedroom, which is not a fantasy I’d ever thought I’d have but I roll with it.
“Oh God,� I say when I walk farther into the gallery and see the massive canvas. Pinks and greens and blues. Watercolors that were spilled when Patrick and I were rolling around it. Heat burns my cheeks to a blush as I see Professor Meneses walk up beside me. “Tell me, Lena,� she says in that very serious way of hers, tapping the gold wire of her glasses. “What medium did you use for this piece? It’s frantic, almost sensual in the way you used the brush strokes.� How do you tell your art teacher that the six-foot-long canvas is a mix of acrylic, gesso, and sex juices?
