Sin-bin

Chapter 7 - Dallas

Thankfully, my shift at The Leaf remains pretty calm and boring outside of Marcial's appearance. I was just shocked to see him standing there in sweats and a sweatshirt with two other tall and muscular men. One of them looks familiar like I've seen him on TV more or maybe in the Leaf; I don't know. 

It was evident that Marcial was shocked by their presence. I guess we had a silent agreement not to see each other outside of our appointments, and we both just violated that. I tried not to make it weird by talking too much or making it overly known to his friends that I knew him, but I don't think I did a good job. They looked at me shiftily, like I was suspicious or something. 

The lunch rush wasn't huge tonight, so we got it under control easily. This means I can leave on time and catch the earliest bus to Marcial's neighborhood. I forgot to bring a change of clothes this morning when I was packing my bag with painting supplies, so Marcial is going to have to see me in my uniform again. I do take my hair out of the barrettes and shake it out. 

Denver has finally entered its real winter phase. There is snow on the ground, and all the sidewalks are slick with the thinnest sheet of ice that it's impossible to see even in the daylight, let alone at night with shitty streetlights. While the wind was non-existent when I started my shift, it was blowing at me violently as I walked to Marcial's apartment building. I wore a real coat today since I only had work and didn't go on campus. But, because I'm seeing Marcial, I remembered grabbing my Denver Yetis scarf, which I got a couple of years ago. It was a good choice because it kept my cheeks from freezing in the wind. 

I wince when the door to the apartment lobby is thrown open violently from the wind. I shoot an apologetic look towards the woman behind the desk in the lobby, but she just stares back lifelessly. Eventually, I got inside, shut the door, and made it to the desk.

"Hello, I'm here to see Marcial Bacques in apartment 629."

The woman purses her lips and, in the most bored voice I've ever heard, asks, "Name?"

"Dallas Smith."

She nods and presses a button that makes the elevator ding, "Mr. Bacques pre-approved your arrival."

I thank her and scurry into the elevator. It's just as shiny as last time. But at least it gives me a surface to fix my wind blown hair in. I unwrap my scarf, too, and it is now starting to heat up in the building. The elevator is efficient and deposits me in the maze in which Marcial's apartment exists. It takes longer than I would like to admit to find his apartment number and again knock. 

Clearly expecting me, Marcial opens the door fast and peers down at me, "Hi."

"Hi."

He steps out of the way with no other words to let me into his apartment. Nothing has changed, not even the fact that a hockey game is playing silently on the TV. The only new thing is the painting tarp, still in its package, resting on the glass coffee table alongside a collection of 8x11 canvases in a value pack. He got the supplies I suggested, so that's good. 

"I like your scarf," Marcial says from behind me as he follows me into the living room. 

I beam and hold it out so he can see it, "I got it on sale!" 

Marcial snorts and sits on the couch while I begin to strip off my backpack and winter clothing. 

"Okay, so," I clap my hands as I try to orient myself and decide what to do first. I settle on getting my supplies out of my backpack: "We're going to paint with acrylic paint tonight. I brought a bunch of paint colors, brushes, and a paint cup for us to use. I don't know where you want to actually paint, though, since you got the tarp and all..."