Pixels and Paint by Kristi Ann Hunter

Author:Kristi Ann Hunter [Kristi Ann Hunter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oholiab Creations, LLC
Published: 2023-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

CARTER

I’m sure there are many a journal entry that start with the words it seemed like a good idea at the time and mine tomorrow will likely be one of them. But in the light of this morning, it still seems like the best plan.

Why didn’t I think of it sooner? The easiest way to appreciate a chef’s talent is to attempt to cook for yourself. Art should be much the same.

If I’m very fortunate, the effort will make her see that asking people to look at art through their phone screens is an insulting idea.

I glance at my watch. She’s due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Is she the sort of person who’s early, on time, or late?

My last-minute run-through of the house straightening pillows and emptying trash cans baffles me. For one, she’ll have no reason to go anywhere except my studio and possibly the downstairs bathroom. The state of my kitchen and living room don’t matter.

And yet, I’m prepping them as if this is a date.

There’s that d-word again.

My studio is usually a near-sacred space for me, but I hadn’t minded having her in it last night, and not just because she was saving me a customer support phone call that, apparently, would have been rather embarrassing. The idea that she’ll be in my studio again should cause me concern, but it doesn’t. Even having Frank in my space makes me nervous.

Is it because she doesn’t know what she’s looking at? She isn’t judging my unfinished works because she doesn’t know how and wouldn’t care if she did. If I decide to scrap a painting, she’ll never know.

Everything is ready so I take the bag I’ve been emptying trash into out to the outside trash can.

And laugh.

There’s a little silver hatchback, and the driver is staring at my house as if it might explode and she’ll need to make a quick getaway.

I close the trash can and walk over to her car. As I get closer, the low hum of an electric engine meets my ears. So she really is thinking about driving away. I give the window a light tap.

Her face jerks toward me, but the expression doesn’t change. Two long braids frame her wide eyes. The relaxed hairstyle fits her.

The window lowers. “Hi.”

“Hello.” I point to the house. “Want to come inside?”

She glances at the dash. “I’m five minutes early.”

I spread my hands wide. “We can wait out here if you’d like.”

“You don’t need the five minutes to . . . get ready or whatever?”

“Ah, no.” My face pulls together in confusion. “You were here, what, twelve hours ago? What do you think I’ve done in that amount of time that requires a lot of cleaning?”

“I once spent a total of nine hours in a hotel room. Seven of those were spent sleeping. And yet, somehow, my stuff was everywhere when I went to pack up the next morning.”

This strange detail about a moment in her life fits my interactions with her, even if it doesn’t sound like the type of person who would wear designer pantsuits and attend benefit galas.

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