Archie, Darling. A Queer Romance

Archie, Darling. Part 5

12

Work is hectic today. It's bump-out for the splashy-splotty exhibit, and we have to get it all done by six o'clock. You would be surprised how much bubble-wrap it takes to wrap a canvas, especially when you're as bad at it as I am. You'd think I'd have learnt by now, but when it comes to wrapping frames or presents: I am dog-shit. It doesn't help that we had to start at four this morning, I don't work well on minimal sleep. I didn't think about that when I invited Ellie over for dinner last night. I debated waking her up to let her know, but I decided to just leave her a note and a key to lock up when I left. I've been stressing about it all day; she should have woken up by now but I haven't gotten a message from her and I'm too nervous to message her to check. I hope Mum has already left for work; I can't imagine how awkward it'd be for both of them without me there. This, on top of meeting Ollie, (the Bermuda triangle), I'm almost certain it's too much for her. I try to put it out of my mind as Mary hands me another artwork.

"More spots and splashes for you."

"Actually, I think this one is splashes with spots to be honest," I reply.

"Oh, you might be right actually, how could I get that wrong," she chuckles. I take the three-by-four-foot painting and place it on a fresh sheet of bubble wrap, fold the edges, tuck the corners, tape them down. Flip and repeat. Mary is already onto the next art work.

"This one is definitely splats with splodges," she says, impersonating an octogenarian art critic. Mary is five foot tall, wears horned rimmed glasses and could knock a brick wall over with one hand. She cycles to work each day and heads to the gym after, I've tried to go with her a few times but I give up half an hour into each session. She seems to take so much pride in her physical health, I just can't seem to find that in myself. That's not to say I'm not fit; my whole family have fast metabolisms and slim builds so I've never really had to work hard to stay slim. I've taken that for granted for a while, and it's only recently that I've realised how judgemental I've been about people's weight. Mary is very focused on her fitness and I've never really connected with my own. I consider myself good looking. I've got a nice beard and deep blue eyes which I think are my best feature. I'm not particularly tall at 176cm, but I'm quite strong; canvases don't weigh much, but if you shift them around enough times, it's a decent work out. I see my body as more of a utility, it gets me from A to B and does a good job of it. Beyond that it doesn't really register as anything to me.

"Come on dickhead," says Mary playfully, handing me another canvas.

"Thanks knob-ass," I say mindlessly.

"What?" Mary cackles, "Knob-ass?" she repeats.

"I have no idea where that came from," I say, laughing.

"Knob-ass," she repeats.

"Personally, I think it suits you," I quip back. For the hundredth time today, I pull out my phone to check; still nothing. I try to take my mind off it, I open messenger and respond to one from Avery.

"How's work?" they say.

"Not too bad, finally bumping out the splashy exhibit," I reply, putting my phone away. I hope I see them again soon, maybe its selfish because I'm not sure I want to date them; but the talks we had when we met were really fulfilling. I loved the way they described gender; I want to ask them more. I want to understand their way of framing identity.

"Hey Mary," I say, "Do you think I'm queer?"

"You are queer, aren't you?" she says, distractedly handling a painting.

"Well, yea," I say, feeling silly

"Watchya thinking bug?" Mary always calls me bug, I'm not sure when it started but it's cute.