50-50 Chance

In my dream I am falling, endlessly, eternally, the world a void passing me by forever until it isn’t.

I hit the floor with a thud, echoed by several people gasping. My eyes open slowly, curtains lifting on a show I’m on the wrong side of. It takes a few moments for my eyes and mind to align, and even still they’re a little perpendicular to each other.

The floor belongs to the room of the art department I’m modelling in, my arm is on a chaise lounge made of red velvet and I’m wearing an outfit that feels scandalous; revealing, embarrassing, I go to pull it shut but its design is to be open and so I remain stark.

“Sorry,” I manage, my brain too far behind my eyes to get in the way of my throat, “I hope I didn’t ruin anyone's painting.”

A soft chorus of laughter runs through the crowd, its reserved but relieved, soft but strong and through it cuts one laugh I know by heart.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks from across the room, and then a lot closer, “Need a hand?”

I take his hand, made of wood wrapped in cloth, firm and real against the drowsiness of my own fingers; numbed by sleep and the crushing of my own weight. He sits me down before turning back to everyone else.

“I guess that’s our sign to stop. We don’t wanna kill the guy. I’ll go let the front desk know we're done with the room early.”

He leaves me alone and I’m surprised. I’m surprised I’m surprised; he arranged this he has responsibility for me but he left me alone with a pack of stranger.

“Can I see what you did?” I ask boldly but not confidently.

I think this is the right answer as a dozen people excitedly gesture for me to come see their work first; diplomatically I choose to go left to right and shyly reassure anyone they don’t have to show me if they don’t want to. The other dozen seemed as mortified as I did the moment I stepped in the room. I think that artists are fickle; they want to communicate with the world but hide as soon as the world looks their way, in that capacity am I an artist?

The first piece is a stark black and white; soft particles of black and grey make up the negative of my body, more naked clothed than I’ve ever been undressed, I look like me yet not at all the features are accurate to a mirror but twisted slightly. I can barely speak, my mind is blank, how can anyone see anyone like this?

“It looks great.” My voice is weak, I worry I’ll insult them if I say anything else or what I already said.

I’m passed around from awkward conversation to awkward conversation but mostly it's a one sided emotion, they all talk to me excitedly, explaining myself to me in technical, fragmented ways, i am hands, skin, shapes to them. But I can’t help but glance slightly over to the abandoned easel with a black sketchbook firmly closed to me.

“You’re a really good sitter,” The woman I met at the exhibition tells me, “I mean beside the falling asleep. Thanks for showing up today. I was a little nervous when Michael actually tried to arrange this, it was a little intimidating having a model this attractive.”

I blink and look up from her work to her, I can’t speak, it’s too ridiculous, her piece was one of the few in colour but seemed so gentle, my body pale against the velvet, tinged warmer by the lights, “Attractive?”

She looks a little confused but I’m pulled away to the next person's easel. The room is slowly emptying out, some even before I could see their work, and on it goes until I am left alone in the room.

I look at the sketchbook; closed, a black void in a sea of pale wood. It would be rude but I want to see, my heart is full of questions but it's not my place to answer them. I reach out and gently touch it; the cover is rougher than I thought, made of fabric not paper. I pull it away as if it's been left in the sun too long and excuse myself to the other room to change back.

Just as I’m pulling on my shoes I hear the gentle creek of the main door and freeze, a rabbit, in a warren of paint thinner and rags. The footsteps lead away from me and whoever it is busies themselves somewhere out in the room. I hold still, there is no way they can see me but sound still carries through the old door.

A knock startles me into a nearby shelf, its cool wires harsh against my bare skin; on edge from exposure to a thousand eyes.

“You okay in there?” Michael calls.

I nod and open my mouth to speak but no words can pass by my lips. The worst timing, Frustration immediately rises in my throat and I press a hand to my face as if I can push out what ails me.

He pulls the door open and peers in through his fingers at me before dropping his hand to his side, his bag is slung over his shoulder and the points of its fabric tell me his sketchbook is inside; I’ve missed my chance.

“Oh good you’re dressed. I borrowed the clothes from the theatre department so just leave them wherever.”

I place them on the shelf he placed my clothes and look to him for confirmation.

“Are you okay?”

I nod and open my mouth but still I have no throat, the muscles atrophied in an irritating instance.

“I thought we could go out for a late lunch at the cafe, if you want to of course. I’d get it if you’re tired though.”

I shake my head aggressively; I want to go with him and I couldn’t eat out of stress so lunch would be nice. I look to him, trying to discern his expression, hoping he understands me. His eyes are looking at me but his body is tilted towards the exit. I can see there is black dust on his fingertips, just enough to shimmer and highlight the whirls of his fingerprints.

“Cool! I hope you enjoyed today, and it wasn’t too stressful.”

I nod but it's an abstract question; either answer could mean either thing, I try to gesture in emphasis but give up and just walk towards the door. Michael gets what I mean.

By the time we reach the café my heart and throat are lighter, Michael can carry a conversation forever so the time is filled with his chatter, the words are frequent, complex and flow into my head and out again like a rain clearing away dust.

Same comfy chair, table, café, a warm inviting space in a cool alleyway, distant rain rolling down the few windows which faced outwards to a brick wall; it was intimate in a way that made me think of how close we had stood in the store room.

The coffee was somehow deeper, more bitter, an abrasive experience compared to last time but I liked that it let me spend moments longer with Michael.

“So you got to see how people see you, huh? What did you think of that?” A Cheshire cat like grin slit those lips in two, like a tear, intense and foreboding, was he annoyed?

“Your friend from the exhibition called me…attractive.”

Those pretty hands flexed for a moment, tightly, crushing, the poor cup.

“Really? Marie said that. I’m not surprised, you are attractive.”

I shrugged and looked out to the small flinch of light that came across the cafe floor from the window; it was blurry, dissolving into the shadows, a refraction of reflections in the rain.

“I looked attractive in everyone's art. I think I was drooling in my sleep.”

Firm hands on my wrists pulled me to face him, intense eyes meeting mine as if they were the only thing in the room, every painting blank, every table nothing, a world of him and me.

“Alex! I was so nervous to talk to you I spent half an hour working up the courage. Even asleep, every person in that room was entranced by you. I want you to be my muse until the day I die because any time less wouldn’t be enough to explore the depth of your beauty.”

All I could do was blink, faux Morse code from a brain with no electrical impulses just dust, nonconductive, insulating dust, a circuit board made of rust and frayed wires.

“Oh.” I whisper, “but if you say something like that I’ll think you’re in love with me.”

I’m home lying on the biting hard lino of my floor before I can blink, the world is cruel and lovely all at once, and completely incomprehensible.