by Mary Frame
Freya appears in my doorway promptly at 5:00 p.m. on Saturday armed with a bag of goodies and frequent assurances that she’s there to make me look classy and not at all “slutted up”.
I give in, but only when she shows me the jeans and long sleeve top she’s intending on forcing me into.
In the end, I’m fairly satisfied in skinny jeans, boots, a flowing top and colorful scarf. She even has a matching purse. I draw the line at the jewelry.
“But it’s sparkly!” she tells me.
“I don’t like jewelry.”
She shakes her head solemnly. “It’s like you’re not even human.”
“I find it uncomfortable. No matter how long I wear it, I can always feel it. I never lose awareness of something against my skin.”
“Freak.”
“Yes,” I agree.
I kick her out at five thirty. “You need to let me give you a makeover,” she says as I’m walking her out the door. “A real one, not this lame just-changing-your-clothes crap.”
“I look fine.”
She crosses the threshold onto the porch and turns to face me. “You do, you really do, but just imagine a few highlights, maybe a haircut other than straight across the bottom? Your hair is so long and pretty, there’s so much you could do with it!”
“Thanks, Freya.”
I move to shut the door and she calls out as it’s closing, “Don’t forget to call me tomorrow! I want details!”
The door clicks shuts.
I go back into the bathroom and wipe off half of the makeup. By the time that’s done and I’ve straightened up my room, it’s five forty-five. Fifteen minutes until Jensen said he would “pick me up”. But I really don’t have anything else to do. I grab the purse Freya loaned me and a jacket and head out the door.
Jensen opens the door in jeans and a button-up shirt, but no shoes.
“I’m ready. I didn’t see any point in waiting until six,” I say.
“Well, this is a first.” He opens the door and steps back to let me in.
“A first what?” I ask. I step past him and inside, glancing around. I’m very interested in his place. He’s been so hesitant to let me in during our previous encounters and I can’t help but wonder why.
“The first time a girl has had to wait for me to get ready. It’s normally the other way around,” he says with a smile. “Out in a second.” He disappears down the hall.
His side of the duplex is the mirror image of mine, except for a few key details. The fireplace, for one. I had noticed the chimney from the outside before, something that set his side off from mine. Also, my place is rather plain. I don’t have much on the walls and all my furniture is functional and mismatched, hand-me-downs from various relatives and garage sales.
Jensen’s place is like a model home. His walls are decorated in framed black and white prints. His furniture is all sleek wood and stylish form. He has hardwood floors in the living room and tile and granite in the kitchen.
Everything seems so shiny and new. Except for one thing. There’s a side table against a wall, a nice mirror hanging over it. But on top of the side table is an old, squat, white vase. It’s not completely white; it’s been weathered and slightly yellowed with age. There are a few spots that are nearly brown and there are more than a couple chips on the enamel. It seems such a stark contrast to the rest of the space, I can’t help but be drawn to it.
I pick it up and look at it in my hands, turning it around and examining the bottom. There are no distinct markings or signatures on it.
“Do you like it?”
I spin around.
Jensen is leaning his shoulder against the wall in the hallway, watching me.
“It doesn’t quite fit.” I hold it up and use it to gesture to the rest of the space before placing it down gently where it was.
“That’s the point.” He pushes away from the wall and steps next to me, running a finger around the imperfect edge of the rim. A breeze of his cologne wafts over me. “It’s wabi-sabi,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Explain.”
He smiles down at me. “Wabi-sabi is a Japanese principle that embodies the idea of transience and imperfection. Like the life cycle. We are born, we get old and we eventually die. Objects are the same, they get old and weathered, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s all a part of the cycle of nature. Wabi-sabi is about appreciating the beauty in our naturally imperfect world.”
I absorb the words for a minute and appreciate the sentiment.
“It’s interesting that this imperfect item is surrounded by perfection,” I say.
His smile widens and my gaze is drawn to his lips. Against my will I remember what he tastes like. I force my eyes back to his, but he’s no longer looking at me. He’s looking down at the vase. I watch him in the mirror.
“My father had this place designed and furbished before I moved in.” He picks up the vase. “This was my addition.”
“Your rebellion.” It makes sense to me now, him not locking his door before he leaves for coffee every Sunday morning. Why should he care about his possessions? They aren’t his.
He nods and then puts the vase back down, clearing his throat. “You ready to roll?”
Once outside, he opens the car door for me and I slide across a slightly torn leather seat. I reach over and unlock his side. Since it’s an older car, he can’t unlock all the doors with a click of a button.
He gets in and turns the ignition, the engine rumbling to life.
There are dents in the dashboard and the carpet at my feet is worn, but it’s clean and comfortable.
“Even your car is wabi-sabi.”
He smiles at that.
“It’s all the original upholstery and interior,” he tells me. He tells me more about the car and I watch the lights from the other cars and street play over his face as he talks and drives.
“My dad wanted to buy me something new and flashy, but I had my heart set on a sixty-five Mustang since I was ten. I had to drive to Kansas to pick it up, and I had to log in sixty hours a week of filing and data entry for an entire summer, but it was worth it.”
“You bought it yourself?”
“Yep. When I told my dad what I wanted, he refused to give me a single penny. Now I’m glad, though. It’s the only thing I’ve ever owned that’s solely mine.”
“I’ve never had a car.” I run my hand along the leather armrest on the door.
“Never?”
“I don’t need one. I can walk almost everywhere I need to go, and if I’m going to my parents or somewhere else, one of my brothers drives me or I take the bus.”
There’s silence in the car as he merges into traffic heading downtown.
“How many brothers do you have?” he asks.
“Four.”
“Four? That’s a pretty big family.”
“I suppose so. It feels normal to me. I don’t have a point of comparison.”
He pulls up outside the art gallery. There’s no parking out front and there’s a line of people at the door, waiting to get in.
“It’s busier than I thought it would be,” he says. There’s a nervous layer underlining his words.
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.
“No. I guess not.” He shakes his head and then glances at me with a smile. “It’s a good thing.”
Maybe I imagined his nervousness. Why would he be anxious about an art exhibit?
We drive down the street about a block before we find a place to park.
I get out before he has a chance to open my door, but he holds his arm out for me to take and we walk down the street quickly to get out of the cold.
At the door, a dark-skinned woman with curly brown hair greets Jensen with a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you could be here,” she says, holding his hands in hers. “Who did you bring?” She looks at me curiously.
“This is Lucy London,” he says, and then to me, “This is Anita Johnson. She owns the gallery.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
There’s no time to exchange further pleasantries; she hands Jensen a pamphlet and we move into the building so that she can greet the people behind us in the line.
The wide open gallery is fairly bustling. Waiters in black and white circle the area with trays of food and drinks. Faint music tinkles through the open space. There aren’t many lights shining above us; most of the illumination is reserved for the items hanging on the walls and various standing structures.
Jensen grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. Much like on campus, he seems to know quite a few people here. We stop a few times while he shakes hands, gets slapped on the back, and makes introductions. I nod and smile and attempt to appear more comfortable than I feel.
Eventually, we make it to the section with oil paintings and I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to talk to anyone but Jensen for at least a few moments. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic with all those people pressing in.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I’m thinking that he’s still holding my hand, even though it isn’t necessary since we aren’t moving through people and there’s no chance that we will be separated in this less populated area of the gallery, but I realize that’s not what he’s asking. I look at the canvas in front of us.
“I’m not sure. I presume the artist intended to draw trees in autumn. However, these colors are unlike anything I’ve seen in nature.” Instead of red, orange and yellow foliage, the leaves are a neon yellow, magenta, and the brightest orange I’ve ever seen. It’s almost painful to look at.
“Why do you think that is?”
I consider the question, but there’s no logical reason I can ascertain as to why the artist chose this particular palette. “I don’t know,” I admit finally. “What do you think?”
“I think the artist is in love,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because everything seems brighter.”
I think about this and shake my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Love doesn’t affect your photoreceptors.” I look the painting over again and add, “I think the artist may have ingested hallucinogens. Scientists have discovered that use of such drugs unlocks the 5-HT2A receptors on the surface of the brain, which in turn affect your other senses, making the world appear and brighter and inaccurate in comparison to reality.”
Jensen lets out a short bark of laughter.
“Is that funny?” I ask.
He shakes his head at me. “Every time you open your mouth, you say something I don’t expect.”
“Is that bad?”
“Definitely not. But I win.” He pulls out the pamphlet he obtained when we entered and points out the name of this particular piece. It’s entitled Falling in Love.
“Get it, falling?” he says, nudging me with his elbow and giving me a crooked smile.
“I’m not sure if that’s clever or ridiculous. And you’re not allowed to use the title of the piece in your assessment, that’s cheating,” I say, but I find that I’m smiling.
I have to presume he enjoys my commentary and lack of artistic intelligence because he pulls me around to a few other sculptures and paintings, and he asks me a variety of questions about each one, mostly laughing at my responses.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at analyzing art,” I tell him when we’re sitting on a narrow bench together eating a few appetizers on small plates in our laps.
“I think you’re great at it. So great in fact, that you may have missed your calling as an art reviewer.” He eats a small bite of chicken satay off a toothpick.
“Perhaps,” I say. “I have no idea what my calling is. Art critic is just as likely as court jester at this point.” Homeless person might be my job description if I don’t figure out an experiment in emotional pathogens.
He finishes swallowing his food before meeting my eyes and responding. “I think you’re selling yourself short. I have no doubt you are capable of anything you set your mind to.”
I watch his unwavering gaze. It’s a nice feeling, someone I’m not related to having so much faith in me, however misguided and inaccurate it might be.
I smile at him and pop a bacon-wrapped scallion in my mouth.
“There you are!” Anita, the gallery owner, appears next to us and lays a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “Are you guys enjoying the exhibits?”
We smile and nod.
“Do you mind if I steal Jensen away for a minute?” she asks me.
I shake my head no while still chewing a mouthful of food. I finally swallow. “Of course not.”
“Feel free to look around and enjoy the appetizers and drinks,” she tells me with a smile. She pulls him away and to the other side of the gallery where they disappear through a door marked private.
I wonder what that’s all about. I finish the remaining bite of food left and throw the plate in a sleek silver trash in the corner. I pick up the pamphlet Jensen left on the bench and weave through the people still milling about.
There’s only one more section of the gallery I haven’t seen. We walked through the first two—the oil paintings and the sculptures—each separated by a low wall.
The third and final emerging artist on display features all charcoal drawings of people. But not models. At least, not in the sense of the word that implies tall, thin and perfect.
There’s an old man with a double chin, a small child with a cleft pallet, and the profiled form of a beautiful woman with a missing leg. The drawings themselves are fairly simple, at least at first glance, but I realize there are all kinds of details only apparent upon closer inspection. The glimmer in the old man’s eyes, the dimple in the child’s cheek.
It reminds me of wabi-sabi, finding beauty in imperfections. Jensen knows the gallery owner, maybe he knows this artist as well and that’s where he learned the concept.
I read through the leaflet. All of the other works have the name of the artist along with the title of the drawing, but these just have the titles. And the titles themselves are fairly generic: man, child, woman.
“What do you think of this one?”
I don’t bother turning to face him because I would recognize his voice anywhere, that deep, gravelly pitch. He’s standing next to me, his shoulder brushing mine.
“It’s different from the others,” I say.
“Different good or different bad?”
“Definitely good. But I’m not sure exactly how to describe why. It’s less…pretentious.”
He laughs, a deep resonant chuckle that makes goose bumps rise over my arms.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Yes.” I missed lunch and the few bites of appetizer didn’t do much to assuage my hunger.
“Let’s get outta here.” He grabs my hand and we twist back through the crowd.
We pick up a pizza on the way back to the duplex and end up at his place, eating at the granite bar between the kitchen and the living room.
“So, tell me more about your brothers and the rest of your family,” he says. I’m sitting on a bar stool at the counter and he’s in the kitchen across from me, opening cupboards and retrieving plates and napkins. He slides a plate down the counter to me and I catch it. I pop the lid on the pizza and dig in.
“There’s not much to tell,” I say, putting three pieces of pizza on my plate. “My brothers are all much older. Sam is the closest to me in age, he’s about eight years my senior. Tom is the oldest, then Ken and Jon. Sam is about twelve years younger than Jon.”
“That’s quite an age difference.” He stays on his side of the counter, pulling his own slices onto his plate.
“I was a surprise. My mother had me when she was in her forties. She was happy to finally have a girl.” I take a bite of the pizza.
”I bet they were even more excited to have a genius child.”
I shrug. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“They d
idn’t really know what to do with me.”
“But still, they must be really proud of you.”
I just nod because I’m not sure. They’ve never communicated that to me and I’ve never asked.
“How long have you lived here?”
“For the last two years, since I was eighteen. Before that, I would take the bus here every day.”
“Your parents boot you out at eighteen?” he asks with a smile.
“No. My parents didn’t want me to move out, but I wanted to. I love my family, but I don’t enjoy living with other people.”
“Why not?”
I consider his question before answering. “Being alone is easier.”
“Easier? Or more controllable?”
I pause again. “Both.” I’m not entirely sure what else to add. I feel slightly unnerved that Jensen seems to understand me better than I understand myself and we hardly know each other.
We munch on pizza for a little bit and in between bites I ask, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope. Only child. Just one creepy cousin.”
“He’s not creepy.”
“You don’t know him well enough.” He smiles.
“What about your father?” I can’t help but ask. I’ve wanted to know ever since their exchange last week and if it’s appropriate for him to ask about my family, I have to assume the reverse is also true.
“What about him?”
“You don’t get along.”
Jensen sort of nods and shrugs at the same time, pulling another slice from the box and picking at the toppings. “We don’t always agree.”
He doesn’t seem inclined to expand so I stay quiet and hope the thoughts rolling around in his brain will eventually spill out of his mouth.
“When did you move out?” I ask when it doesn’t seem he’s going to elaborate.
“Same as you. Eighteen. I lived in the dorms until last semester when this place opened up.”
“Did you like the dorms?”
He grimaces. “Not really. Have you ever shared a bathroom with three dudes?”
“No, my two eldest brothers had moved out by the time I was able to use the bathroom.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not pretty.”
I look down at my plate and realize I’ve finished my pizza. I stand up to put my dirty dish in the sink, but when I move around the counter into the kitchen, he stops me.
“I didn’t always want to be a lawyer,” he says finally, taking my dirty plate away and placing it on top of his, walking both of them to the sink. He turns the faucet on, splashing water over our dirty dishes.
I’m not sure if he’s changing the subject or not.
“What did you want to be?” I ask.
“Anything that my dad wasn’t. Anything that he didn’t approve of.”
“Why?”
“He’s not always a nice person,” he says.
“No one is always a nice person,” I say.
That makes him smile, a little. “That’s true, but my dad can be a real prick.”
I tilt my head at him. “Explain.”
“Where do I start?” He gives a short laugh and shuts off the tap, turning his body to face me and leaning back against the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re probably going to think it’s stupid, and it probably is. I’m just a poor little rich boy with First World problems.”
“You’re not being fair to yourself. The amount of wealth your family has doesn’t make your feelings less valid than anyone else.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He watches me for a second and then looks away. “Our most current debate is over my future. I’ve decided I’m going to pursue civil rights law.”
“And your father doesn’t approve?”
He shrugs. “He wanted me to go into corporate law, like him, but he’ll accept it. Eventually. For him it’s better than the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then stops and shakes his head. “Anything. It doesn’t matter what I want to do, I do what he tells me. Mostly.”
I think carefully before I speak. I know how I want to respond, but I also don’t want to offend him or make things awkward. I think a little about what Duncan told me, and how I had made mistakes in the past while counseling others.
“You don’t have to let anyone else dictate your life,” I say finally. “They aren’t the ones who have to live it. You give your father more power than he has.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”
“You’re right, I don’t. I’ve never had to deal with overbearing parents. If anything, by the time I came around, my parents were too compliant. But if you’re not happy with the path your father is forcing you down, you’re the only one who can change it.”
There’s silence for a moment and I wonder how he’s going to respond. He can’t complain to Duncan, but he can avoid me and for a fleeting second I think that might be worse.
“Logically, I know you’re right,” he says. “But the saying and the doing are two entirely different things.”
“Fair enough,” I concede. “I understand that sentiment completely.”
“So tell me,” he says. He walks past me to the living room.
I follow him to the couch and sit on the opposite side, leaving a good two feet between us.
“If you have such a large family,” he asks, “why is it that you have to go through this whole socialization experiment?”
A very neat maneuver to remove the conversation from him and turn it back to me. I smile at him to let him know I’m onto him. “Since my brothers are significantly older than me, by the time I came along, they were all too old to play with, and I was never much for behaving like normal children.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of stuff did you do?”
I shrug. “Mostly taking various objects apart and then attempting to put them back together.”
He looks intrigued. “Like what?”
“It started with small things like clocks, watches, things like that. Then I moved on to the dryer, dishwasher, and fridge. I spoiled a whole week’s worth of food once, playing with the fridge.”
He laughs. “So while other little girls were playing with dolls and games, you were playing with household appliances.”
“More or less.”
“That’s pretty amazing.”
“Or odd.”
“Nah, never that,” he says. “Well, I’ll admit when we first met I did think you were pretty odd. But now.” He stops and shakes his head. “Now I appreciate your bluntness. Trust me, when you’ve been lied to by the people you’re closest to, you start to place a high value on honesty.”
He’s still smiling and our eyes meet and we stare at each other until I start to feel strange and uncomfortable twinges somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.
His eyes are dark in the muted light and I experience a sudden and compelling desire to lean in closer and press my lips against his. To feel the loss of control again, just for a minute. The same loss of control that had me confused and reeling before. Why would I want to do that again?
“I have to go,” I say instead. And then I’m standing and grabbing my jacket and heading for the door with Jensen close on my heels.
“Are you sure? I can make some coffee or—”
“No. That’s fine. Thank you for a very nice evening,” I say quickly and then I’m out the door and across the porch.
When I get my door open, Jensen calls out behind me from his open doorway. “Good night, Lucy.”
I don’t turn around. Instead I call back, “Good night,” and then I shut the door firmly behind me. I shut it on Jensen, but I can’t shut it on myself and on the strange and foreign feelings churning inside.
Chapter Twelve
The best scientist is open to experience and begins with romance – the idea
that anything is possible.
–Ray Bradbury