Page 28 of Dirty Diana
I smile. “That’s all right. I have to get back. My boss is kind of a micromanager.”
“That nice guy who lets you get stoned in your car?”
“You saw that?”
“Of course not.” He smiles—his dimples even sexier in person—and holds out his hand. “I’m Jasper.”
“Your work is beautiful. Congratulations.” Is that what you say at an opening? It sounds clumsy.
“Thank you…”
“Diana.”
“Sure you don’t want one?” He offers the tin once again and I shake my head.
“It’s a good show, they’ve done a nice job with it.”
“Are you an artist?”
“Sort of. Yes. Working on it,” I say. “I’m an assistant to an artist. Justine Loka.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I know Justine.” He laughs. “Tough job.” His warm brown eyes are kind. He seems impressed. “You’re a textile artist then?”
“No, I’m studying painting.”
His eyes are searching mine, like he cares deeply about my answers even though we’re two strangers in a cold parking lot.
“I’m working on a project where I interview different people and use what they say in my paintings, mostly in the margins.”
“Like a comic?”
“Yeah, sort of like a comic strip. But they look nothing like that, graphically. I try to render the portraits romantic and intimate, but then the words are just ordinary…or petty. Plain and direct. Sometimes it’s about that. I like the contrast.”
“What do you ask them about?”
“All sorts of things.” The streetlight flickers behind him. “I’m most interested in stories about things people find it hard to talk about. Things that make us uneasy. Like money…death, sex. Discomforting things.”
“Discomforting.” He extinguishes his cigarette with his boot. “Sounds really interesting.”
Interesting.Ugh. I’ve clearly done a rotten job of articulating this. Things thatIfind discomforting: explaining what I’m currently working on. Lately I’ve developed an aversion to the way some of my fellow art students are too ready to sell everybody on their topic. This is why I started interviewing people before I painted them—then I could puttheir words in the paintings. It means someone else is talking and I’m just painting. Makes me less suspicious of what I might be up to.
“I start with charcoal pencil. Sometimes even pen,” I throw in. He nods and I’m distracted by the way he moves—rocking from one foot to the next and never standing still. Even the simple way he hunches his shoulders against the cold is stealing my focus. “But most of the finished pieces are oil paintings—”
The door opens and I’ve never been so happy to see Silent Rod in my life.
“Um, Diana? I think we need to cut Alicia off?”
“Shit.” I turn to Jasper. “Nice to meet you.”
He raises his hand in a wave, and his smile is dazzling.
I find Alicia behind a table, serving coffee with fat tears streaming down her cheeks, flushed from too much wine. I slide in next to her. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Diana. I just keep thinking what if this is never us?” She gestures around the gallery. “We’re getting old. What if we’re always serving cocktail weenies? I mean, what if I have to marry Barry?”
I give her a playful shove. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“You know what I mean.” She’s gulping in air. “We know he likes me and I’d be willing to invite Rod or whomever into our marriage…”
