Canvas

9| The Artist's Bedroom

Alice watched as Charlie folded himself into the dark window of his bedroom. She looked after him, half expecting a slammed window in her face and to be laughed at from the other side, amused she believed he’d help someone like her. He disappeared in the shadows for a moment that seemed to stretch too long before he stuck his head back out into the rain, squinting his bright eyes at her.

“Aren’t you coming inside?”

He held out his hand to her and waited. Tentatively, she stepped forward and took his cold, wet hand with her own, and for a moment, the ice that lived under their skin connected them. Holding onto her hat, she ducked her head and stepped from the grated metal landing into the dark room, her heels clicking softly on what sounded like hardwood.

She let go of his hand as soon as she was inside, not wanting to let her fingers linger on his skin. It seemed more dangerous to do so in the darkness in of his room, which was somehow even more absolute than the darkness of the open night sky. Still, she could make out a few shadows of hulking furniture. A large bed sat low to the ground, rumpled and unkempt, a tall and long dresser that ran nearly the length of the room, and next to her, a strange triangular shadow she couldn’t quite identify. The shadows took up her space, crowded her toward the window. She already liked the warm, cozy feeling of his bedroom; running into him again might turn out to be a stroke of good luck after all. 

Charlie stepped around her to pull down the window and lock it in place. He was silhouetted against the gray sky outside, a black, dripping figure. Alice noticed he made no move to pull closed the drapes and she wondered if this was something he did often, or if he left it open for her benefit. Maybe he didn’t want her to feel trapped.

His shadow turned around toward her and let out the whisper of a soft, nervous laugh. She could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.

“I apologize for the mess.” His shadow moved from the window, farther into the dark room to the tall dresser. Alice heard the striking scratch of a match and the sizzle of fire flaring to life. Just his fingers and face were lit for a verse of tapping raindrops against the closed windows before he touched the match to a series of candles that melted creamy wax into the dark wood of the furniture.

The light flared the room into a golden haze and she looked around. 

Art was everywhere. Dozens of sketches were tacked to the wall above his bed and even more littered the floor in front of his closet. A handful of paintings—the oily color still shining wet—rested on a layer of sketches on the floor and on the dresser. Even more canvases and were propped against the wall next to the window, some empty, but most were brimming with life. 

Charlie bit his lip, ran a hand through his hair, bounced up on his toes and rocked back on his heels. He was fidgety, nervous. Shouldn’t she be the one feeling uneasy, spending the night in a strange boy’s fancy apartment? Charlie opened his mouth, then decided better of it, clearing his throat and reaching for a murky glass of water. He took a long, loud gulp and sputtered.

“If you feel more comfortable with the window unlocked,” he said, speaking around his choking coughs, “I can open it again. It’s just, like this—when it’s latched, I mean—the room is warmer. There’s usually a crack that lets the cold air in, but if you prefer it open—” 

“Did you just drink paint water?” Alice asked with a small grin. She eyed the glasses of colored water and paintbrushes that were scattered across the surface of his dresser and circled her fingers around the top of each glass. Blue, green, red, purple, brown.

“Yes. I did.” Again, his fingers found his hair, the collar of his unkempt shirt. “I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.”

“Nearly half a glass.” She paused, lifted the last dregs of cloudy water, and swirled it around the base of the cup before setting it down again. “Does purple taste as good as it looks?” she teased, turning away from him.