Demons (Jonathan Toews)

Chapter Fifteen

People shuffled around the small gallery space, their eyes connecting and scrutinizing every inch of work that had been hung on the walls. As the large group moved, snapping pictures and jotting things down on their note pads, they shifted to one of my paintings and continued their speaking, picture snapping, and then after a minute they moved on to another one. As the group went through a few more, came to another one of mine, I pressed my fingernails into my left arm and turned away from them, the nerves in my stomach driving me crazy.

“You need to relax, dear.” Professor J’s voice calmed some of the nerves in my stomach, but didn’t help the fact I felt like I was about to throw up all over the grey, slate colored floors.

“If you weren’t here, I think I would have collapsed into a pool of my own nervous throw up by now.” I whispered, my eyes scanning over all of the works in the gallery, and then snapping to the front doors, waiting anxiously for the two men to walk through them. I wanted so badly to hold onto one of them and have them tell me it was okay, and that I was all worked up over absolutely nothing.

Inhaling deeply, I watched as the group started to break a part and a few people went to different works hanging on the walls, some of them clung to mine, their faces inches from them. To this, I rolled my eyes and completely turned my back to them and faced the front doors, my eyes tracing over every single person that walked by the doors.

It had been an hour since the gallery show had opened. Pat and John told me they would show up, and even as the clock struck eight, and my hopes started to fade, there was still some left. There was still some little sliver of hope that maybe they were running late, or got lost, or something two tired guys would do. Something dumb.

A few people came over to me, causing me to break the stare with the doors and engage in awkward and meaningless conversation. They asked me obvious questions, like if I used a palette knife, and if I used real flowers in the paintings. Of course I answered with the biggest smile on my face and answered the questions as if they were really meaningful and in depth, when in reality they were kind of obvious.

Eventually, the curator made her rounds and broke one of the older woman’s conversation with me, who was drilling me with questions that I barely had time to think about before she asked another one. When Annie broke us up, the woman simply said ‘

I like you, young lady’, smiled at me and walked away. It was bizarre, and I would have believed it was a scene from my imagination played in front of me if Annie hadn't mentioned the older woman.

“Hitting it off with the big shots, I see.” Annie gave me a huge smile as she wrapped her arm around my shoulders and dragged me off near the front desk where not many people were. Once we stopped walking, she turned to me and pulled me into a short hug. “I have two buyers on one of your paintings, and the woman you were just speaking too, she curates shows at modern galleries in New York. She is probably one of the pickiest most stuck up, rude, big headed, women I have ever encountered. For her to like you is a miracle, for her to like anyone is a miracle, actually.” Annie and I chuckled a little and then fell back into silence. After a minute or two of our eyes scanning the gallery, she turned to me and flashed a smile. “Do you want to sell those?”

“Is it-“

“One said three hundred, one said five.” Her eyes rolled over to me, and then she sent me a small smile.

“I see no problem selling them.” My cheeks burnt red as I looked at her, a wider smile lighting up on her pink lips. “As long as they’re going to good homes.”

“Only the best”, she flashed another smile, squeezed my shoulder, and then disappeared into the gallery leaving me alone at the front desk, the cold air chilling me to the bone that was seeping through the cracked open front door.