The White Fence

27. Angry Landscape

            Derek and I spent the rest of the afternoon talking, and when it started to get dark, he took me home. I was back over at his place the next day, and it didn’t take long before spending time at Derek’s became somewhat of a routine. He cleared space for me to work, and made room for my stuff, so I didn’t have to cart it back and forth every day. He even kept the cabinet stocked with my favorite snack.

            While Derek worked, painted, or did repairs, I did homework, or worked on essays. We didn’t say much to each other, most days, just enjoyed spending time in the other’s company. I was on his typewriter tap-tapping away one afternoon, and didn’t notice that Derek had come down from the loft until I looked up to notice him watching me. He was leaned against the wall, a Coke in his hand.

            “What?” I wondered, once I noticed him. He shook his head. “Just watchin’,” he answered, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. “What’re you workin’ on?”

            I looked at a line I’d just written. “Nothing really,” I responded. “School work.”

            “No you’re not,” he dismissed, easily. “You don’ look like that when you’re workin’ on school work.”

            “No,” I challenged. “How do I look, then?”

            He toyed with the can in his hand. “The way you look all the time: like you’re tryin’ to figure out the correct way to say somethin’. When you write, just because, though, it’s like you’re searchin’ for somethin’, ‘stead of just tryin’ to figure on how it ought to sound, and when you discover whatevuh it was you were searchin’ for, you can see it in every line in your face. When you get amused by somethin’ you wrote, your eyes twinkle. When your lips turn down, I assume it’s because somethin’ unpleasant happened in what you were writin’, or you lost tha thought for tha piece you were workin’ on.”

            I think I just sort of gaped at him, wondering how much time he spent thinking about me, and how had I failed to realize he was making observations. “It’s not often that I get to see you so unguarded,” he added. “It dazzles me.”

            I searched for a response, but all I could think to say was, “I’m not guarded.”

            His eyes still held that intensity. “Yes, you are,” he stated. “When you write, though, it’s different. Everythin’ just kind of eases out. Otherwise, it’s like you analyze everythin’ too much.”

            “I don’t analyze everything.”

            “You do,” he said, unapologetically. “When aren’ you lookin’ at things every way from sideways?”

            “I-I like to observe things,” I said haltingly. “I wouldn’t say that I analyze everything, though.”  

            “You do,” he said, firmly. “It’s just how your brain works.”

            I thought his statement was unfair considering that amount of scrutiny he’d apparently had me under. “Aren’t you analyzing me now?” I demanded.

            Derek shrugged. “I’m an artist. That’s what I do. You have to know tha tiny things about people if you want to portray them properly, and the best way to do that is to observe. It’s amazin’ what you can see when you let your eyes wander.”

            His eyes wandered along my features as he said the words. “Like what?” I questioned, wanting to shift the conversation off of me.