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Message-ID: <41835asstr$1050279002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: johndear@softhome.net (john)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 13 Apr 2003 20:39:18 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} (RP) The Opening (revised)
Date: Sun, 13 Apr 2003 20:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Author: johndear
Title: The Opening
Summary: A friend attends an artist's first opening night at a big
city gallery.
Keywords: love story
Length: 1,698 words
Copyright: c. 2003


The Opening
by johndear

Light washed onto the sidewalk, in pools that beckoned those like
Dennis with a printed invitation.  First inside the open doors, he
planned to meet her briefly, hold her hand.  Calm her with a
compliment before the others sauntered in to see her paintings,
monopolize her time.

"The Auk presents with pride."  Then, in three inch Signet Roundhand,
"Rota Bremmer."  Then, smaller, "North of Nipissing."  A photo of the
artist: middle-aged, round faced, almond-eyed, mouse brown hair, a
flip that hung above a cabled sweater.  Strong, high cheekbones.  A
quiet, luxury of smile that Dennis found attractive.  The poster,
matted, rested on a massive wooden easel by the door.

Her opening.  And his, he thought.  The first time that she'd shyly
let him see a sketch, an ember.  Breathed on it.  Suggested new
directions, tinder.  Laid twigs with care.  A full-sized painting. 
Blew on it to make the flame.  A frame.  Like this?  No, hang the
cost.  I'll pay.  Just don't you sell it yet.  Just put it back, okay?
 A thicker branch; a few.  She'd thought: the little gallery, the
place beside the mall?  No way.  Toronto, Rota.  Let me take some down
and see.  He'd lit the fire.  Stood back and watched it blaze.

Three, four dozen now in groups of four or two or six.  Each wineglass
held with just three fingers.  P té on a cracker.  Straining toward
some sentence to explain a shelf of rock or twisted tamarack.  A
smile.  A yawn.  Dennis circulated.  Hoped.  Till, finally, one red
dot appeared, a sticker on a label: "No. 43  Sunset willows  Oil on
canvas  $400.00"  Sold!

Two women.  Cocktail dresses.  Pearls.  Discussed the shades of green.
 Her wallpaper, it seemed.  The light.  The empty space beside a
cupboard.  To balance out that godforsaken chair.  Patiently awaited
time to meet the artist, rustic in her chambray and her jeans.  Not
knowing all their questions might be answered by the man who stood
behind them, listening.  How her paint had been applied.  How her
colours had evolved.  The meanness of a life in far off Renison.  The
temper of her dog.  Her recipe for moose.  Then spotted friends across
the room; moved off for second guesses.

Dennis watched her.  Laugh.  A finger touch her shoulder.  Graze her
stately hair.  A hand to shake.  Congratulations.  Hug.  A whisper
from the dealer.  No longer nervous.  Confident, he thought.  They
loved her.  She'd been too scared to eat for days.  Trembled while
he'd helped the dealer unpack crates and hang her paintings all that
afternoon.

His opening as well.

* * * * *

"What time is it, Dennis?"

He checked his watch.  And lied.  Subtracted half an hour.  "Three. 
That's going good."

"Tell me when it's four.  I have to start their supper."

"Sure, Rota.  Four.  Just finish all the cobalt.  If you stop, you'll
lose the touch."

"I can't go faster."  Dipped stiff flat bristles in the warm blue
ooze.  Pressed them on the canvas sky.  Sweat glistening on her brow.

Dennis listened to the laughter, shouts outside her window.  Will
Bremmer.  Husband.  Thad and Sammy, twins, now ten.  Playing in the
backyard pool.  Faintly, "Mom!  Mo-om!  He took my fins!"

"She's painting, boys.  Just share."  From Will.

"Mom.  They're mine."

"Not!"

"Come on, boys.  Trade off or something."

"Why?  He left his at the Thompson's.  These are mine!  Mo-om!"

She laid the brush down on the pallet.  Looked at Dennis ready to
apologize.

"Don't you dare."

"They need me, Dennis."

"Will can sort it out.  You have a right to finish this.  It's the
best you've ever done."

"My son."

"They're being kids is all.  You're there if it's important.  Paint."

She sighed.  He watched her soul tear slowly down the middle.  "If I'd
only done this first.  When I was twenty.  Dennis, I'll never do
enough to show."

"You will.  You're miles ahead of guys just out of school.  You see
things.  Feel."

"If I worked smaller.  There'd be time for family."

"You can't.  These are big.  That's what people want.  You can't do
second best.  You'd hate yourself."

She daubed more blue.  "You'll tell me when it's four?"

"Promise."  The noise of family, muffled now by scrape of dry fall
leaves against the basement window.  Supper would be late that day. 
Will would pout.  Might press her once again to give it up.  She'd
mollify them.  Somehow.  Once the sky was underway, Dennis knew how it
would hook her.  How the paint required, demanded that she finish. 
Would haunt her after supper.  Call her down the steep cold steps at
two a.m. while family slept.  Hypnotic.  Standing hours in fuzzy
slippers, freezing in her nightie.  Hints of turquoise at the edges. 
Tiny dots of yellow that an eye and brain would someday blend into a
perfect summer sky.  Guilty only when a son might tiptoe down with
toast and morning coffee, remind her she was Mom.

Perfect.  Not just talented.  That's what he told her hubby: it would
be a crime to never let her try, never let the paintings out she saw
behind her eye.  Couldn't tell him, Will, or her, how much he longed
to kiss her perfect lips, hear her perfect moan against her neck. 
Couldn't pet the border collie, not without the thought her fingers
touched there, too.  Couldn't greet her children, not without a pang
of jealousy.

"It must be four."

"Not quite.  You're almost done."

* * * * *

Toronto.  Eight months later.  Rota's opening.  Her first.  Red dots
now scattering.  A chance to say, "Hi.  I bought the ...  I really
love the way you ...  Tell me how you ...  We have a cottage by the
..."

Dennis stood nearby and sometimes listened.  Was cornered by a woman
ten years younger, elegant in flimsy top so sheer it made him blush. 
"You've been here all night.  You're not a buyer, are you?"  Said in
confidence.

Dennis, "Not exactly."

"The husband, right?"

"A friend.  Her husband couldn't make it.  It's very far away."

"Her lover."

"Friend.  I used to do some art.  She's very talented."

"Who didn't ... 'used to do some art'?  Lynn."

"Dennis."

"This wine is horrid.  She should've shown at Roberts.  Tell me why
she paints."

"You ought to ask her that.  One of those amazing 'first show'
questions.  I'd love to hear her answer."

"I'd rather have the truth."

Dennis smiled as wryly as he could.  "I'm flattered that you'd think
I'd know."

"I'm serious."  She pushed a half-step closer as a gawker squeezed
behind her.  Her nipples now erect against the fabric.  Caught him as
he peeked.  "Tell."

"Maybe ...  'Cause it'd be too painful not to, to keep them all
inside?  She'd go wacko if she didn't."

"Sold," she said.  Then drifted with the crowd, a red dot on her
finger.  Turned.  Winked.  "Good luck with her," she said.

Luck.  Wished he had a chance.  The courage.  Or the right.  Had
bottled up his feelings long ago.  Sat with her a year and comforted,
cajoled, instructed her on art.  Never once a comment out of line. 
Her friend.  And now, tonight the hurt was crushing.  A lump inside
his throat.  A hunger in his gut.  "Hey, thanks."

But she was gone.  Another took her place.  A man his age.  Wondered
if the streets up there were safe from polar bears.  He'd seen it on
the news.

* * * * *

The hotel bar.  Near empty.  Music, classic rock, so soft that one
could talk.  An opening was all he wanted now.

"You didn't have to stick around all night, you know.  You've done so
much already."

"You knew I would.  Nothing ever, that I didn't want to do."

"Fifteen sold!  I'm rich."

"You're not."  He smiled at her exuberance.  "Your cut is less than
half.  Not enough to pay the framing."

"Don't bring me down.  Please.  I'm flying."

"You damn well should be.  You're amazing.  You'll sell some more next
week to walk-ins.  He'll keep the others on consignment.  Show you now
and then to keep you current.  Hey.  My first two shows I barely sold
at all."

"You should've kept it up."

"I had my ride.  No regrets.  Not one."

"I'm tired.  Like a hundred loads of laundry.  It's hard to smile that
long."  Laughed.  "I ran out of stupid things to say before the first
one sold."

"You prob'ly want to call the family."

"Too late for that.  Not sure I want to anyway.  They'll be annoyed it
went so well.  Afraid I'll put them through it all again."

"Don't, then.  Don't call, I mean.  You have to paint.  No choice. 
You belong to art as much as it belongs to you.  The dealer wants
another show.  And soon."

"I want it, too."

"Let's go."  He led her.  Down gold corridors to separate rooms. 
Looked for gaps to slither in her feelings.  Stopped beside her door. 
Watched her patiently retrieve the card that was a key.

"Thanks, Dennis, for everything."

"Rota?"

Turned, door open.  "Dennis?"

"You're just amazing."

"Thanks."  A smile.  A pause.  The hesitation that he'd dreamed.

"Could I come in a minute?"  Prayed she'd let them kiss.  Now, place
his hand beneath her shirt.  Would not resist his mouth against her
sweet pear breasts, his whisper in her ear.  The snap of jeans would
not alarm her.  Would not deny the things pent up all year.  Hoped
he'd roll against her on the king-sized bed.  Would, with artist's
finger, draw the outline of her opening, spread her lips and finally
help her cum.

"You shouldn't.  I'm so tired I can't think straight."  Shocked him
with, "Goodnight."

* * * * *

Her door, ajar, at seven in the morning.  Dennis knocked.  Knocked
again before he entered.  Saw her luggage by the bathroom, packed and
waiting, name tags neatly lettered like the poster for her show. 
Found her dressed for travel, sitting, staring out the window.  Summer
haze and city skyline.  Morning coffee in her hand.  Saw the bedspread
draped beside her.  Where she'd sat all night and shivered.  Lost in
thought and seeing nothing.  Saw the telltale tear that streaked her
face.  His opening, at last.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


The first draft of this story was submitted to ASSM for the "In
Thoughts of You" challenge.  Submissions by other authors are at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/twassel/www/InThoughtsOfYou.htm


Other love stories by johndear can be found at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear/www/

or

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear/

Please share your comments about this story with me at 
johndear@softhome.net

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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