Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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The art gallery looked too clean and too bright. Wasn't art supposed to be messy? The architecture was unnervingly symmetrical, like the V-shaped passageway at the entrance. Pierce walked through it and thought he had entered an unfinished construction site. All the walls and benches were so white that even snow would be a stain.
There were a least ten young women walking around with trays of flute glasses filled with something bubbly. None of them offered one of the beverages to Pierce, presumably because he was dressed like the maintenance staff. He had worn his good jeans, like Elliot had requested, but his usual Carhartt jacket was hiding his nice button shirt - not to mention his trademark orange hat. He dressed for the weather, not to impress.
Pierce kept his hands tucked in his pockets, too tense to shake anyone's hands. There was a wall of cryptic paintings that caught Pierce's interest. They looked nothing like Elliot's art. The colors were dark and the techniques looked old, whereas Elliot typically created things that were vivid and fresh.
"Are you a fan of the artist?" A voice questioned.
Pierce looked over his shoulder and saw a neatly-dressed guy no older than himself. "Uh, what? No, no. I'm just - "
"Critiquing?"
"I don't know if I have the credentials to call it critiquing, but sure, yeah. I'll judge with permission." Pierce rambled. He was so out of place. "You're not the artist, are you?"
The stranger flashed a smile. "No. I'm Alex - a friend of the artist." He was carrying one of those bubbly drinks. He must've frequented these kinds of events if he was confident enough to approach one of the traveling trays.
"Oh." Pierce gave him a slow nod, gesturing to the artwork. "Is he okay? Because, like, this is some pretty dark shit." Was he allowed to curse at an art exhibition?
"What would you prefer?"
"Something a little more - I don't know? Happy."
"You don't like when people are sad?" Alex observed. "It makes you uncomfortable?"
"Me? What? No - I mean, maybe? What?"
"Maybe the artist isn't sad," Alex offered. "Maybe he paints the sadness he sees."
Pierce looked at Alex - his deep inset eyes, the shadows looming under his lower lash line. The grim colors of sleep deprivation matched the stormy sky on one of the canvases. The intensity of Alex's stare was tormented, as if blinking hurt. He wasn't just the artist's friend. He was the artist's muse.
"Maybe."
"But he wouldn't want me to influence your interpretation," Alex backtracked. "I'll tell him what you said. He likes feedback."
Pierce politely inclined his head. "Do you know where I can find Elliot Norfolk's display?"
"You know Elliot?" Alex's face livened slightly. "Rory constantly shows me his work. He has a keen eye for emotion."
