Pug Hill by Alison Pace

Author:Alison Pace
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Fiction.Contemporary, Art
ISBN: 9780425209714
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2006-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

I walk slowly through the silent hallways of the Met, and just for a moment everything is so peaceful, like it used to be, before there was Elliot, before Patsy Cline kept piping up, belting out “Crazy” in the background.

I walk into the Conservation Studio, and while the silence is still there, the peace is gone. Elliot is here. Annoyance flares inside me, but there is, in certain situations—in this situation in particular—some merit in being annoyed. Being annoyed at the sight of Elliot could be a very good sign; it is an improvement to say the least on the usual rendered speechless, melting of my heart that takes place.

“Hi, Elliot,” I say, as I walk to my station and begin sorting immediately through my can of brushes, looking for the one I was using at the end of yesterday; it was working so well.

“Hey, Hope,” Elliot says, he even looks up halfway and smiles, which of course makes my stomach flip over.

Patsy Cline isn’t playing in the background anymore. Suddenly, the song has changed. The Red Hot Chili Peppers are singing now, singing the first lines of the song, “Otherside.” How long? How long? I’ve always liked to believe that the music that always plays in my mind has a point, and I think: How long, indeed. I mean, really, how long can this go on? And worse than that, with me being single and all, how long, if it doesn’t get better, until it just gets worse? How long until I’m not just staring across the room at Elliot, how long until I’m more desperate, brazen even? How long until I am up and off my stool, charging across the Conservation Studio and lunging at his penis? My, God. I shake my head, it is the only way I can think of to make the Red Hot Chili Peppers song stop playing. It works. The music stops. I angle my easel and my stool away, and find the brush that I want.

Thankfully an hour, maybe longer goes by, and I’m able to concentrate only on the picking, the tiny painting of red dots onto the red section of the Rothko.

“Hello, Elliot, and hello, Hope.” Sergei’s deep voice bounces off the ceiling, off the walls, as he strides purposefully into the room, past us, and over to the canvas stretchers. Why is Sergei here? Is Sergei here all the time on Saturdays with Elliot? Am

I the only one who generally does not come in on the weekends? I always thought no one ever came in on the weekends; well, I guess I assumed Elliot did, because on top of being the object of my endless fascination, he also does seem to have a bit of an obsessive-compulsive disorder lately when it comes to whipping through his Old Master landscapes. Landscapes, though, they are so much easier to restore. You can hide so much among trees and leaves and blades of grass. You can’t hide anything on a Rothko. With a Rothko, with the broad areas of color, everything you do is out there for the world to see.

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