Every Time

by Lexy Timms

  I gathered the rest of my hair into the scarf before tying it around my head. I tucked everything in and slipped a couple of bobby pins against it, making sure it wouldn’t pop off my head in the middle of the day. I threw on some jeans and a shirt before grabbing my light denim painting button-up, then I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. Now I had the entire day to think on how the hell I was going to cover up my hair from Bryan. I got to the gallery and opened right before the floodgates released. Regulars who had been coming in every day were there to take a look at my latest paintings while new people who were beginning to filter in slowly took in all the artwork on the walls. Being in my gallery helped me forget about everything. Every time a piece of artwork was purchased, I felt a breath of life caress my bones. This was everything I’d ever worked for, the culmination of my life’s breath as I knew it. If this was the only legacy I left behind, then I could die with a smile on my face. And even the mention of death in a place like this didn’t seem to hit as hard as it did when I was alone in my apartment. I got beckoned over by a couple I recognized. I smiled at them and waved, enjoying their familiar faces while they pointed at my newest painting on the wall. It was an outline of myself I’d done, filled in with swirls of gray and black. The canvas behind the silhouette was swirled with a few pastel colors, but the overall tone of the painting was much bleaker than what I’d been doing as of late. And it honestly made me smile when the couple noticed. “Why is it so gloomy?” the woman asked. “I think the better question is why the fact that gloomy bothers you,” I said. “Well, your paintings are just so upbeat, in a way,” the man said. “The idea of beauty is that it can be found anywhere, even in its counterpart. Having something contrasting the idea of upbeat makes

  you treasure it all the more, does it not?”

  “What do you mean?” the woman asked. “Well, you said this painting was gloomy. Does that mean it bothers you or that you miss the upbeat paintings I used to do?” I asked. “I miss them,” the man said. “Would you have missed them had I not painted this painting?” I asked. “Well, no, I guess,” the woman said. “And isn’t that a beautiful feeling? To know that there’s something else you appreciate in this world?” I asked. The recognition slowly started to ease over their faces, and it made me smile a genuine smile. “The idea of beauty in darkness isn’t simply placing beauty in the darkness. It’s also about showcasing only darkness, or gloomy in this aspect, and making you appreciate what is sometimes only beauty or only upbeat. The occasional contrast between light and dark prompts people to appreciate the lightness all that much more.” “Or the darkness, depending on which they favor,” someone said. I turned around and saw that everyone in the gallery was gathered around me listening, and my eyes threatened to fill with tears. Holy hell, I was going to miss this. “Exactly,” I said breathlessly. “But what if no one buys it because it’s too gloomy?” someone asked. “Sometimes art isn’t made to be purchased. Sometimes it’s made to release an emotional state from the body, so the mind has a better chance of recuperating and coping,” I said. “So, you don’t ever expect your art to sell?” someone else asked. “Nope. I’ve just been lucky enough to have people who enjoy it,” I said. “Is it true that Van Gogh didn’t sell any of his paintings while he

  was still alive?” the woman asked.

  “Well, he did sell a few, contrary to the popular legends. But, they weren’t for much. In this day and age, he maybe sold them for five dollars.” “Five dollars?” the man exclaimed. “Yes,” I said, giggling. “Van Gogh was not revered in his time. Not like Michelangelo was.” “So, the guy dying made his stuff more valuable?” someone asked. “How did that work?” “It’s strange, thinking about how an artist dying could do that to their work. How come they can’t get that recognition while they’re alive?” another person asked. “It’s got to do with the simple act of business,” someone else said. “If an artist floods the market with their work, then it drives the prices of their own work down. The rarer something is, the more valuable it becomes.” “Yes, but who’s to say one artist’s work is worth millions while another artist’s work isn’t worth a penny after they’re dead?” another person asked. “The idea of supply and demand does play a role,” I said, “but I think it’s also the artist’s story. Everyone loves a good sob story. They enjoy the life of the suffering artist as much as they do the art itself. Some people purchase art because of how it looks, but some people purchase art because of the story behind it. In terms of the suffering artists, Van Gogh is one of the ones who take the cake.” “Well, I’m not sure my parents are going to enjoy this type of painting hanging on the wall in their room,” the woman said. “And that is perfectly fine,” I said, smiling. “There are plenty of paintings with much lighter themes to them if you’d prefer those.” The couple ended up purchasing one of my more conventionally beautiful paintings. It was a basic scenery painting with the sun barreling down into the top of a forest of trees. They paid for it and thanked me for their help while the rest of the people simply meandered about the room. The conversation we’d just had got me thinking about the European tour and how all that money, especially after I was gone, could go to helping not only Bryan but my sister as well. She could use it to help fund her low-cost legal aid. It could help her reach more people like I knew Bryan wanted to do. I hadn’t been selling paintings long enough to flood the market or anything like that, but my story would resonate with a lot of people. Especially if I painted those paintings in lonely hotel rooms while I dwelled on my state of life. I could turn myself into the struggling artist who rendered so many people posthumously famous. Fame wasn’t what I was after, but the riches that came with it could really help the people I’d surrounded myself with. Anna and her outreach. Bryan and his passion for the homeless community. Drew and his tattoo shop. They could all benefit from what was currently an agonizing experience. I still had a chance to pull some beauty out of this pathetic scenario I’d found myself in. But as the people trickled out after lunchtime, I felt my head beginning to throb. It throbbed so deeply, in fact, that it moved me to tears. I went over and locked the gallery door for lunch before I shut off all the lights. Then, I went back into my little shop and lay down on the floor. The cold floor was soothing to my head, but my vision was beginning to blur. Tears were pooling underneath my cheek as I curled into myself, and I had to close my eyes to keep myself from becoming nauseous. This was the worst my headache had ever been, and a frightening thought crossed my mind. What happened when I could no longer remember this place?

  Chapter 17

  Bryan

  I

  wanted to surprise Hailey at her apartment tonight. I went by dur

  ing lunch to try and bring her something to eat, but the door was locked, and the lights were out. There wasn’t a sign on the door stating whether she was coming back or not, so I decided not to bother her. But I worried about her for the rest of the day, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d seen her with my own two eyes.

  I pulled up to her apartment complex and parked my truck. I felt my hands shaking for some reason as I walked up to her door. I rose my fist to knock and listened to the shuffling behind the door, and already a smile was rising on my cheeks. I hadn’t seen her since the dinner she had with her parents, and I was anxious to know how it went. I knew she’d been nervous and didn’t want to go, but the moment she told me Anna had organized it, I’d encouraged her to give it a try. She’d called me that night and told me it went as good as it could go, and I didn’t press the matter anymore.

  But I wanted to know everything about it.

  I tried to convince her to let me join them, but she was against it. She told me that she didn’t want to make things worse by springing a guy on them, and while I could understand, it hurt that she didn’t want me there for support. I wanted to hold her hand through the entire thing and make sure she was all right. I wanted to provide a buffer like she had for me with my parents in case things got out of hand. So,
I simply made Anna promise me she would be the buffer I wanted to be and left it at that.

  However, the moment Hailey opened the door and saw me standing there, all the questions I had for her fled from my mind. My eyes fluttered up to her head. Her smooth, bald head. I could feel her eyes on me, studying my reaction to her as she slowly stepped away from the door. I walked in as she shut the door behind me, turning around to keep my eyes on her hair. Or rather, her lack of hair. “Is it bad that I already miss it?” I asked, snickering. “Nah, not really. I had this random vision today in the shop and thought I’d try it out. I couldn't decide on a color this morning, so the only obvious direction was to shave it all off.” “Obvious?” I asked, giggling. “Does it look that bad?” “No, no, no. Not bad. Just different.” “I don’t really know if it’s for me, honestly. The vision looked much better than the outcome. I’ll give it a few weeks, and if it doesn’t grow on me, I’ll just get a wig,” she said. I watched her saunter over to her fridge as she grabbed a couple of drinks for us to have. This strange and wonderful woman I was in love with just did whatever she wanted at the drop of a hat, and it was almost inspiring. She simply envisioned herself doing something and then did it. She saw herself with a gallery, so she did it. She saw herself selling her artwork, so she did it. She saw herself painting instead of being a doctor, so she dropped out of school and did it. She saw herself with no hair, so she did it. I’d never known her to be quite so mercurial before, but she was an artist. She changed the color of her hair at the drop of a hat, so it was only a matter of time before she changed the style of it. Granted, her hair was getting long, and I was enjoying running my fingers through it, but as I studied the back of her head I realized she had a wonderful shape to it. There were very few divots and the top of her head was the same color as the rest of her skin, and there was a beauty to its bare nature that called to me. Then she turned around and smiled, and all I wanted to do was cup the back of that beautiful head and pull her in for a kiss. “Here you go,” she said. “Thanks.” I tipped the beer up to my lips while we sat down on her couch. She looked better than she had the last few times I’d seen her, and I wondered if that was from the thrill of shaving her head. She grinned at me while we sipped our drinks in silence, her hand dancing over to mine while I threaded our fingers together. And that’s when I noticed something odd. “When did you start shaving your arms?” I asked. “Huh?” “Your arms. They’re smooth, too. When did you start shaving them?” Her eyes fluttered down to her skin, and I could see a blush creeping across the top of her head. It quickly trickled down into her cheeks before rushing down her neck, but the playful glint in her eye I expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, it was like she was trying to hold back a type of dread. “I shaved them this morning in the shower,” she said. “Did it look weird to have hairy arms with a bald head?” I asked playfully. “Weirder than you would’ve thought. The bald head offset everything. I’m surprised I still have my eyebrows.” That playful glint was back, and something told me I’d actually given her an out instead of an avenue to let me in. “I can see you still staring at it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m used to seeing you with hair.” “Do you hate it?”

  “Not at all,” I said as I brought her fingertips to my lips. “I don’t love you because of your hair.” “You love me because of my curves,” she said, winking. “Oh, do I ever love those.” Ileaned over to plant a kiss on her neck, and she giggled. I set my empty beer bottle down before I took her water from between her fingers. I allowed it to fall to the floor while her hands snaked around me, my lips pressing kiss after kiss into her skin. She smelled of paint and berries and something metallic, a new scent I’d come to associate with her while my tongue danced along her skin. She undulated into me while her skin stood on end, but it was her hands pressing against my chest that caused me to stop. “You okay?” I asked. “You didn’t tell me about you meeting with Ellen yet,” she said. “Ah, yes. Ellen,” I said as I sat up. “She’s an ... interesting woman.” “Interesting how?” she asked. “Well, the job sounds wonderful. Actually, having that conversation with her solidified the fact that I eventually want to do something exactly like what she’s offering me.” “Bryan, that’s fantastic. So, what’s holding you back?” “Well, I get this feeling that we might not completely mesh,” I said. “What do you mean?” “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.” “Bryan, you know you can talk to me,” she said. “What happened?” I felt her hand wrap around mine and, for a second, I wanted to throw her words back into her face. She wanted me to open up, but she wasn’t willing to open up herself. I drew a deep breath through my nose and sighed, quelling that part of me as I closed my eyes. I was not looking forward to having this conversation with her. “Ellen came onto me.” “She what?”

  “Several times during the course of the dinner,” I said.

  I opened my eyes and sought out Hailey’s stare, but the annoyance I expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, there was a bit of amusement in her eyes, and the grin that crossed her face took me completely by surprise. “She did, did she?” Hailey asked. “What exactly did this wild woman do to you?” I furrowed my brow as Hailey sat back, readying herself for what she assumed would be an amusing conversation. “She kept making these innuendos. She asked me at one point if I was enjoying everything, but it was the way she sat back and flaunted her chest that tipped me off on that one. Then she tried scooting her foot toward mine underneath the table.” “She tried playing footsies with you?” she asked. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Then I told her I was in a relationship, and it didn’t seem to faze her at all. She even wrapped her hand around mine on the table before I stood to leave.” “But you didn’t.” “Not until she verbally acknowledged the fact that I was in a relationship and how, even though she was attracted to me, she would respect my boundaries. Went on this whole diatribe of how she was used to flirting with men to get them to do what she wanted.” “Oh, I bet,” Hailey said, grinning. “It’s really not that shocking. You’re an attractive man. Women are going to hit on you, believe it or not. Did she hit on you after she said that?” “No. I sat back down, and we enjoyed dinner and talked some more,” I said. “Did you tell her about your idea to fuse your company with her foundation?” “Yep. We even talked about some ways I would garner connections with people and businesses across the cities we helped in order to implement other programs I threw at her,” I said.