Mansplainer

by Colleen Charles

  “Look, Henry. I’m not trying to detract from your knowledge or your talents, but…”

  I pause, unsure how to proceed. The look on his face is almost my undoing. Like lost puppies mixed in with rainy days.

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just…”

  I wait, and when he says nothing else, I prompt, “What?”

  He takes a deep breath, staring at me with those hypnotic eyes and my ire falls around my feet like the gentleness of fallen leaves. Something compels me to keep my gaze mingled with his as if the Universe has intertwined us together within invisible cord of connection.

  “My art is much more than my livelihood. It’s an extension of my soul. Most people have no idea about how much it really means to me.”

  I exhale. I understand. I see him in a whole new light. “I totally get that. I really do.”

  He lifts a dark eyebrow. “But…?”

  “Henry, hear me out for a second. I can tell how passionate you are about your art. And the bottom line is that–”

  He opens his mouth and clamps it shut again. I can tell he’s searching for the right words. “You don’t get it. My process is unique to me. No other artist creates the way I do. But of course, you have to be an artist to understand.”

  I walk over to a shelf with several vases. Things are off to a bit of a rocky start with Henry. I’ve dealt with my share of temperamental artists, but I can already see this is turning into a fire. A fire I’m willingly walking toward. A fire that will ultimately lead to my own incineration.

  Chapter 4

  Henry

  I ram my hands into my pockets, not knowing what to say to appease this tiny person. She’s gorgeous, a bright shiny object that I want to grab and inspect, larger than life despite her petite frame. Her strawberry blonde hair floats around slender shoulders like a halo.

  If I were a painter, she could be my muse. But I’m not. At first, I thought she was interested in my art, but every time I try to explain something to her, she cuts me off. I’m not used to people being rude to me inside my own sacred creation space.

  I try a different tactic as I smile at her. “Meadow…”

  “Yeah?” She turns around.

  “I just wanted to say that… I might’ve gotten a little carried away. I can’t help it. I get a little crazy sometimes when I’m talking about my art. Each portion of the process is important, and I often forget that there are other art lovers in the world who already know the steps.”

  She points to a machine in the corner of the studio. “I notice you have an electric kiln.”

  My eyes widen, impressed that she can distinguish between the different types of kilns. A majority of my customers have no clue. Hell, most of them have never even seen a kiln let alone know how it operates.

  She walks over, those elegant fingertips caressing the machine like a lover. I imagine what it would feel like if she were touching me. Those hands running down the length of my chest, to my belt buckle, and…

  “Do you fire at nineteen-hundred degrees?”

  My lust is masked by a little cough before I can even reply. “Nineteen-fifty, actually. That creates the ideal conditions for fusing the…”

  She hasn’t looked at me in over a minute, and I find myself yearning for the strength of her gaze. Challenging me. Engaging me. Making me yearn for things with her that can never be. She’s not mine to possess.

  “… ceramic paint with the gold. It’s custom made. I have a very certain color palate I’m fond of.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She points to one of the vases. “You do amazing things with terra-cotta.”

  “Thanks.” I stand there with a racing mind right along with my surging blood, curious about how she knows so much about pottery. I’m not sure which part turns me on more, her knowledge of art or this crazy pull she has on my physical body. “Are you an artist?”

  The shake of her head is barely perceptible. All it does is draw my attention to her amazing head of silky hair. At the same time, I imagine running my fingers through it, I imagine firing a vase that exact color. And keeping it for myself.

  She spins back around. “Actually, I own an art gallery. Pathways. It’s in the East Village.”

  “Really?”

  “I was also an art history major at NYU. I got my master’s at Columbia.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment washes over me in waves. If I’d taken a beat to learn and understand about her perception, I might have picked up on the subtle nuances of knowledge being tossed in my direction. Instead, I rashly chose to try to impress her with my style by regurgitating verbal vomit instead of letting the pieces speak for themselves.

  She looks at me, a strawberry blonde eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

  Social ineptitude not-withstanding, I attempt to close the ever-widening gap between us. “No, I don’t mean ‘oh’ as in bad, I mean ‘oh’ in the best possible way.”

  “Oh.”

  I’ve really put my foot in it.

  “Meadow, I never meant to offend you.”

  I’ve lost her before I ever even had her.

  “Oh.”

  As she stands in a beacon of light streaming from the floor to ceiling windows, my past and my future collide in regret and frustration. I’ve always wanted this kind of a woman, well-versed on what’s important to me, but before I know more about her, I know she’s not for me.

  She’s worldly. Articulate. Unattainable.

  Confident in a way I can only admire from afar.

  “I really wish you would stop saying that.”

  She smiles, and for the first time since we met, it reaches her eyes. I could get lost in those gray orbs, the way they change color on the strength of her emotion. I already know they turn darker with annoyance and lighter when she talks about art.

  Concentrating on getting the words out, I inhale a deep breath before speaking. I don’t want this embarrassing situation to snowball from bad to worse. “I… like I said, I… it gets lonely… in the studio all day. I guess I’m saying I don’t get a lot of visitors.”

  Her gaze meets mine, and I don’t want to look away. “I find that hard to believe. Your work is amazing.”

  For a precious moment, I believe she means it. “But I mostly keep to myself. I like it that way.”

  “A lot of artists are like that… even to the point of being isolated. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I force a laugh that sounds tinny to my ears. “Verdi would never let that happen. Even if I don’t venture out to get food for me, I have to feed her.”

  “That’s sweet.” She grins as she looks at the sleeping feline. “You know, Henry, you should really do a showing at my gallery.”

  The temptation to see her again floats around me, but like all emotions, it’s fleeting, and I can’t seem to capture it. “I don’t know about that.”

  The way her nose crinkles up entices me. My fingers itch to wipe the wrinkles away and test the smoothness of her alabaster skin. “Why not?”

  She’s not making this easy on me. When I let my rejection fly on most women, they slink away. This one just stands her ground in a blaze of courage. I can tell she knows just what she wants and she goes after it with a dogged determination. She’s like a wild animal in a zoo enclosure, and I can only stand outside the glass to inspect her because I could never enter her habitat without getting shredded.

  “I just don’t like all of the fanfare. All I want to do is create. I don’t want to drink wine and eat cheese and rub shoulders.”

  Or talk. I really don’t want to talk. It’s always been my downfall, especially in a public setting.

  But I don’t tell her the truth. The truth won’t set you free. No. It will twine itself around you like rusty barbed wire, keeping you immobile until nothing remains but the pain.

  I feel her smile deep in my bones. “That’s really a shame because we’ve got the best wine and cheese around.”

  “I appre
ciate the offer, but if you haven’t noticed already, I’m a solitary person.”

  She blinks, and her eyes twinkle before she masks her expression into a blank canvas of sarcastic perfection. “Really? I never would’ve guessed.”

  “You are a woman after my own heart.”

  She looks out the window, and in that moment, I recognize a whisper of loneliness that precedes her certainty. I wonder if she surrounds herself with a litany of people but still feels alone in the midst of a crowd. And I know that look because I wear the same one. Every damn day.

  “What kind of New Yorker would I be if I wasn’t?”

  I let out a laugh. “True. I grew up in Connecticut, but I’ve been living here since I came to college at SVA. And the first thing I learned is that everybody here is sarcastic and the second thing I learned is to never make eye-contact with people on the subway. No one wants to be running when the hounds are released.”

  She chuckles, a sexy rasp that flows over my body, hitting me in all the right places. “You said it. The whole subway thing is weird, right? I like that I can walk most places. Good for the heart. Good for the soul.”

  I nod. “But I love it here. I don’t think I could ever live anywhere else. Going back to Connecticut would be out of the question.”

  She answers, slowly turning me on with every sultry word. “With your talents, I doubt that would ever happen. But you should really think about doing an exhibit at my gallery. More buyers could be exposed to your art. And we could make some sales.”

  As if in a hypnotic trance, my desire to say yes pushes me closer to the heat of the flame. “Would there be a way to do it and…” I stop, not willing to sound so pathetic in front of this woman.

  “And what?”

  “What if you did the showing without me? Like without me physically present. It’s a win-win.”

  She laughs, and there are those crinkles again I so want to erase. “Without you?”

  Henry, I could never even dream of doing a showing without you.

  She doesn’t say it, and the non-words feel like a punch in the gut.

  I shake it off. “Yes, I could let you have a few vases and–”

  “Henry, I just flew in my last artist from bumfuck Wisconsin for his showing. You not being there would be out of the question. The rich buyers like to meet the artists. The novelty of hobnobbing with the creator is part of their bragging rights. Them feeling like they know you personally connects them to the art.”

  “What if I don’t like… people.”

  There’s a long list of things I don’t like, and people are near the top. People create pain, shame, and regret. People do unfathomable things. Sometimes, only for their own perverse pleasure. I can handle any shot they might take at me. What I can’t abide is weapons of words being pelted at my art.

  She takes a deep breath. “Do you have something against buyers who are able to afford your pieces?”

  “No. Money has nothing to do with it.”

  She puts a hand on one curvy hip and walks toward the window. My eyes follow her, landing on the perfect rear end as it sways with each step. It’s the kind of ass that would fit perfectly into the palms of my hands. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s just people in general. I don’t always do well in public settings. That’s why I prefer to keep to myself, work alone.”

  She faces me again. “Are you shy?”

  In a flash of gratitude toward a benevolent universe, I allow her to believe her own assumption. Anything to get me off the hook while still allowing me to see Meadow again. To indulge in my inherent weakness for all things beautiful.

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Her next words are filled with promise and laced with ghosts of the past. “Don’t worry, I would be right there with you every step of the way, and I have an awesome assistant, Shannon. We would make you feel totally comfortable.”

  Don’t worry, Henry, the other little boys won’t make fun of you. They won’t call you a freak.

  I look into her eyes. Searching. Questioning. Any opportunity to be in the presence of such a beautiful and brilliant woman intrigues me, but I know what will happen if I find myself in the middle of a crowd of people wanting something from me. Something that I can’t give under any circumstances. “You seem really nice, Meadow, but I don’t think I’m up for it.”

  She frowns. “Is there anything I can do to make you change your mind?”

  Anything?

  I have a vision of me and Meadow, her stunning naked body lush and quivering underneath my hand while I mold her the way I would my clay. I snap back to reality and shake my head.

  She sighs and starts to move toward the elevator. I immediately mourn the loss of her energy. “Well, if you change your mind.”

  I move to cut her off. The emotions she stirs within me need to stay stagnant and hidden, so my mind doesn’t want to see her again even though my body screams in protest to that decision. It’s getting harder and harder to chase away the yearning for a normal life.

  “I usually don’t.” I catch my breath at the finality of the words, the way they weave a locked gate around us both.

  Meadow swings the front door open, but before she steps on the lift, she turns and fishes something out of her bag. “Well, can you at least promise me that you’ll think about it?”

  “Okay. But–”

  Her gaze does the same thing as a finger to my lips. I imagine her touching me there, willing I could wish away the ache she’s crafted within my body. “Don’t say anything else. Let’s leave it at that… with you promising to think about it.”

  I nod.

  She hands me her business card. “That’s my cell. And feel free to drop by anytime. I’d love to give you the grand tour. Persuade you to reconsider.”

  Something about her tugs me forward, but I fight against it. I’ve never been very good at understanding what I mean to others. Besides my family, I don’t think I’ve ever meant much to anyone outside of what I can do for them. “I don’t get out much.”

  Hope flashes in the depths of her gray eyes as they turn the color of a Highlands mist. “Maybe that can change.”

  “Maybe.”

  It will never, ever change.

  “It was so nice to meet you, Henry.”

  “Same here.”

  “I can see you put your heart and soul into your work. That you leave a part of you behind instilled in every piece you create. You already have a lot of fans in the neighborhood. My clients couldn’t stop talking about you the other night.”

  I don’t speak for several seconds, savoring the compliment. I know she doesn’t understand the hidden meaning of what she just said to me. It’s like I’m being seen for the very first time. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of you before.” Her eyes sweep the loft. “But now I’m ashamed I had to be enlightened. I’m usually not so asleep at the wheel when it comes to new talent.”

  “As I said, I don’t get out much. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “Well, the gallery needs me this afternoon. Thanks for giving me a minute of your time. By the way, do you ever answer your phone?”

  “I will if you call me. It was a pleasure to meet you, Meadow.” I press the elevator’s call button. “And I’ll think about having a showing. I haven’t done it in a long time, so I’m a little rusty.”

  She’s only a breath away from me. I can already feel what it would be like to hold her in my arms. The ache deepens, becoming almost unbearable. Before I can consider the implications, the elevator doors sweep open, and she steps inside. “Don’t worry about that. We can make it work.”

  “Take care.”

  “You too.”

  With a little wave and flash of a smile, she disappears downstairs. I stand there completely still for a moment. It’s not every day someone like Meadow Hughes walks right into my studio and into my life. Making me want things.

  Making me feel things.


  But those emotions are better left buried deep inside, only to be resurrected if they’re needed to create my art. When it comes to my passion, I’ll willingly feel them until they bruise and batter my body like cannonballs. But feelings for the sake of them? No. They’re only worthwhile if something beautiful rises from the ashes of the pain.

  I can’t deny her hypnotic pull. Like she cast a spell over me. Something in her eyes calls to my soul. And it’s deep. Much deeper than the little crush I harbor for the girl at the pizzeria. How is this even possible? I don’t know anything about Meadow. But I know enough to peel back the layers, to read between the lines, and to see the things she doesn’t want me to. I’m an expert at seeing the light amongst the shadows.

  I immerse myself in finishing the piece I was working on when Meadow buzzed my front door. A few hours pass in blissful abandon. After placing the vase in the kiln, I walk out into the living room.

  My mind meanders back to my interlude with the beautiful gallery owner, attaching more meaning to it than I probably should. Unbidden, the corners of my mouth tug upward. I want to grin like the village idiot as tiny tornadoes of want swirl through me. But as I want to explore these sensations that I haven’t felt in a very long time, I can’t take her up on her offer. I can’t imagine standing in an art gallery… the center of all the attention. The adulation. The unmet needs of strangers sucking me dry.

  Relief barrels through me at the memory of her visit earlier. Each time I successfully reach safety without it happening, I consider it a tiny victory within the confines of a lifetime war.

  And I ignore the raw fact that I’m still alone.

  Chapter 5

  Meadow

  The stench of the old taxi tickles my nostrils in layers of sweat, cheap cologne, and arrogance. Shannon sits next to me, all decked out in a custom Armani tuxedo. The confines of my full-length gown envelop me, making me want to rip it off and feel the sweet bliss of freedom. But I can’t.