Let's go.

Part 14: The Unexpected Call

I am sitting at my desk reading over some of the work I brought home when the sun begins to set. I stretch my arms above my head to release the tension in my shoulders. I need to work on my posture, I think to myself and rub the back of my neck.

After our fight in the record store, our make-up sex, and the resulting loss of a very lucrative client, we decided to take some time apart when we got back to my house. We both needed our space.

I check the time on my watch and realize that Layne has been in the attic for the past six hours. And during that time he hasn't ventured down the stairs once. The only indication of his continued presence in my home has been the music spilling down the staircase and the random staccato of his footsteps above me. And the music has been...interesting. I wish he would have taken more of a liking to my blues and jazz collection because redlining contracts to this racket has been a struggle. I swear I had to read each paragraph at least three times. But I refuse to say this to him, and I know if I did, he'd tease me mercilessly.

I close the file I have been obsessing over and rise from my desk. I listen for his footsteps but don't hear him. The music has stopped playing as well. I walk to the back of my house and open the door to the attic. It's quiet. I begin to climb the stairs and once I reach the top I find Layne stretched out on the old antique sofa I have stashed away. He removed the sheets I had covering it and the boxes stacked on it.

I smile softly to myself as I take in his long frame on the small furniture. The sofa isn't long enough to accommodate his height and he is lying on it with his knees bent. His eyes are closed and the warm glow of the setting sun has basked him in a golden light. The sound of the record player's needle bumping along the dead wax draws my eyes away from him. I turn to release the needle from its endless rotation and my eyes meet the charcoal drawings he must have been working on during this time.

I lift the needle off the record and then step closer to the papers he has strewn across the ground. I pick up one of the drawings and turn it into the light. It's a portrait of a man with sad eyes. Charcoal covers most of the page and the man's expression is created through the negative space. The image is jarring, dark, and emotive. It has captured the subject's psychological state and is reminiscent of post-World War I Expressionism. I turn and look at the artist lying with his eyes closed on my dusty sofa with a renewed wonder.

He slowly opens his eyes and meets my gaze. "Those aren't ready for you to see yet, darlin,'" he says, his voice thick and low.

I turn the drawing around to show him what I am looking at. "This is incredible."

He slowly swings his long legs off the sofa and sits up. He rubs the back of his neck and grins at me. "I'm glad you like it," he says, the soft timbre of his voice sends shivers down my spine as he watches me with his intent gaze.

"You should display these," I mumble as I bend to see another drawing closer.

"Uh, maybe not this one," I say with a laugh and hold it up to him. He chuckles and rises to stand next to me.

The drawing is very obviously of a vagina and I have a feeling it's mine.

He rests his hand on my hip and says "You're right," then takes the drawing out of my hands. "I need to see my favorite subject on display in order to portray it accurately." He raises his left eyebrow at me and then sets the drawing down on the desk.

"A close friend of mine owns a little gallery down the street," I say to him, "I'm sure she would love to give you an exhibit."

He turns from the desk where he had set down the very intimate picture of me and smiles. "Maybe. Maybe in time."