Pug Hill - Alison Pace [18]
And what better way to say, “I’d really like everything to work out,” than with a nice plate of crackers and cheese? Though, come to think of it, Evan won’t eat the carb-laden crackers. But still, there’ll be the cheese.
chapter six
Elliot, My Elliot
I can see the IM man bouncing out of the corner of my eye. I should never have turned it on. I should, most likely, not have IM at all. Or at the very least, I should angle my easel in a way so that it is behind my desk, and not off to the side of it, so that when the bouncing yellow man starts bouncing so insistently, so impatiently, I am unaware.
I swivel on my stool, grab my mouse, and click.
EVAN2020: Are you mad?
I stare for a moment at the IM window, at all that empty white space in which to answer Evan. But I don’t want to talk to Evan right now. I don’t for that matter want to talk about Evan.
Suffice it to say, though the cheese was much appreciated, last night did not go well. I stare for a few moments more, and as I do so, it occurs to me that Evan is the only person who ever IM’s me. I quit out of IM without answering and turn back to my easel.
I work diligently through lunch, seldom taking my eyes off the Rothko, a vision, if you will, of concentration. I’ve been trying to match the exact shade of red that Rothko used. I’ve been mixing together different reds—vermillion and alizarin—on my palette, painting it over different shades of yellow and white in an effort to find a perfect match. Though I haven’t been able to match the exact color just yet, I’m slightly optimistic. I think, with a little more concentration, that I might be getting close.
At three, May announces with an air of mystery that she’s leaving for an important meeting and will not be back. As soon as she is out the door, I notice Sergei over there on the other side of the room, making a beeline for his desk. Sergei doesn’t work at his desk, since he’s the structural guy and has to lay his canvases out flat, and be near the heating table and such. I think how it might be nicer to have Sergei’s job, how it might be nicer to be always away from my desk, away from the computer and the lure of the IM. There’s something to be said, I think, for being “the structural guy,” something to be said for not spending as much time as I do staring at only surfaces.
It’s clear now that I’m out of my groove. So I do what I always try not to do, just as much as it is what I always want to do. I look across the room at Elliot.
He’s holding his paintbrush lightly against his chest. He takes a step back, oblivious to anything else around him, and stares, so intently, with all the focus in the world at the canvas in front of him. Oh, God, I think, to be that canvas. Or at the very least, to be that paintbrush.
It’s not altogether my fault. The whole Elliot thing, it all really took me by surprise. In my defense, I was taken a little offguard. It’s not like my place of employment is one that is typically crawling with cute, hot, smart, hip, eligible men. Before Elliot Death (it’s pronounced Deeth, just so you know), with all his qualifications and accolades, arrived here three months ago, I’d never once been confronted by a cute and eligible coworker. It was just something I never thought would happen, ever. Until, of course, it did.
Most people apply to the Met, like I did, like Sergei did. Elliot was wooed here from the Brooklyn Museum, because he’s so good at what he does. Wooed by the Met, can you imagine? I couldn’t before I met Elliot. But then, as soon as I did, I realized instantly