Iman or Iran or—”
“United Arab Emirates. Thanks, Cassidy.” Vivian swallowed.
“Oh, that’s right. No problem.” Perky and undisturbed, Cassidy returned to the front of the store.
Leif froze in his chair. His leg fidgeted under the table. He hated feeling stupid.
Vivian hated the ugly silence (Pantone 3985) that wedged between their chairs.
“I’m sorry,” Vivian apologized, to break the silence. “I don’t know how to tell people about my work. I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off, or make anyone feel like they need to compare.” She stammered, trying to find words for the colors she felt. “I was afraid—”
“I get it. It’s not like I ever greeted the crowds with a list of my stats. It could be interpreted as rude.”
Vivian sighed. “Yes, exactly.”
“You’re amazing. I m-mean, your work is—” Leif stuttered.
I’d always assumed he was smooth and born to flirt until I watched him in action.
“Thanks. Here, try this color.” Vivian handed him a tube of slightly thicker paint in a purple that could almost be called blue.
He took the switch of paints and they worked in comfortable companionship. I envied people who could sit side by side and not speak, not feel the need to fill the void. Eventually, Viviangrabbed ice-cold bottles of water from the fridge and handed him one.
Leif’s painting looked like one of those the elephants at the zoo did with their trunks. Only his had a layer of sprayed spit. “That’s like trying to inflate a balloon made of tire rubber.” He gestured at the last blob of acrylic yellow. “How did you get started?”
Vivian paused, wondering how honest to be. She didn’t want to lie to Leif, but part of her questioned if he wanted the real story or the sanitized version. She headed for the middle of both. “My dad. I needed a lot of lung therapy as a kid. I had a cough and bronchitis a lot. But I hated it all.”
Nice understatement. Make the therapy sound like taking out the trash instead of a necessary brutality
. “When I was little, I played with my food. He made it into a game with me blowing peas down the dining room table. He made me graduate to grapes quickly, then shampoo, pudding, oranges—if it could move or roll, he put it in front of me.”
Leave out the coughing and hacking up tons of sticky phlegm and it almost sounds fun
.
Leif nodded, sipping his water and listening closely. I knew his casual facade belied the pointed energy he listened with.
“One day, he was watching one of those kid craft shows.”
The kind that are on during the day when you’re stuck in the hospital with your sick kid
. “They were blowing paint for some place mat thing, I think. He thought he could get me to work my lungs harder if I was painting. I loved those paint-with-water books and my coloring books. It worked. I still use watercolors, but now I use all sorts of paints and viscosities.”
Leif motioned her over to stand beneath Mathilda No-last-name again. “Is that how you get the depth like it’s her real skin?Using lots of different paint types?” He squinted up, studying the portrait so closely.
“Yeah, something like that.” Vivian was relieved he didn’t ask about her being sick or why she needed so much lung therapy. Healthy kids didn’t understand CF and they seemed to fear an impossible contagion. She wondered what it would be like to have Leif study her that closely. Would he, could he, see beyond her outsides to the reality within?
“Wow. Cool.” They moved back toward his workstation. He was enthused. He picked up the straw again and focused on the paper in front of him. Vivian watched his expression cloud and furrow. She knew this expression—she’d seen it often when her friends bore down to do physical therapy they knew hurt but had to be done. She didn’t understand why he wore it, though. Painting didn’t hurt.
“It just takes practice,” she assured him as he blew along a dot of celestial blue (Pantone
“United Arab Emirates. Thanks, Cassidy.” Vivian swallowed.
“Oh, that’s right. No problem.” Perky and undisturbed, Cassidy returned to the front of the store.
Leif froze in his chair. His leg fidgeted under the table. He hated feeling stupid.
Vivian hated the ugly silence (Pantone 3985) that wedged between their chairs.
“I’m sorry,” Vivian apologized, to break the silence. “I don’t know how to tell people about my work. I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off, or make anyone feel like they need to compare.” She stammered, trying to find words for the colors she felt. “I was afraid—”
“I get it. It’s not like I ever greeted the crowds with a list of my stats. It could be interpreted as rude.”
Vivian sighed. “Yes, exactly.”
“You’re amazing. I m-mean, your work is—” Leif stuttered.
I’d always assumed he was smooth and born to flirt until I watched him in action.
“Thanks. Here, try this color.” Vivian handed him a tube of slightly thicker paint in a purple that could almost be called blue.
He took the switch of paints and they worked in comfortable companionship. I envied people who could sit side by side and not speak, not feel the need to fill the void. Eventually, Viviangrabbed ice-cold bottles of water from the fridge and handed him one.
Leif’s painting looked like one of those the elephants at the zoo did with their trunks. Only his had a layer of sprayed spit. “That’s like trying to inflate a balloon made of tire rubber.” He gestured at the last blob of acrylic yellow. “How did you get started?”
Vivian paused, wondering how honest to be. She didn’t want to lie to Leif, but part of her questioned if he wanted the real story or the sanitized version. She headed for the middle of both. “My dad. I needed a lot of lung therapy as a kid. I had a cough and bronchitis a lot. But I hated it all.”
Nice understatement. Make the therapy sound like taking out the trash instead of a necessary brutality
. “When I was little, I played with my food. He made it into a game with me blowing peas down the dining room table. He made me graduate to grapes quickly, then shampoo, pudding, oranges—if it could move or roll, he put it in front of me.”
Leave out the coughing and hacking up tons of sticky phlegm and it almost sounds fun
.
Leif nodded, sipping his water and listening closely. I knew his casual facade belied the pointed energy he listened with.
“One day, he was watching one of those kid craft shows.”
The kind that are on during the day when you’re stuck in the hospital with your sick kid
. “They were blowing paint for some place mat thing, I think. He thought he could get me to work my lungs harder if I was painting. I loved those paint-with-water books and my coloring books. It worked. I still use watercolors, but now I use all sorts of paints and viscosities.”
Leif motioned her over to stand beneath Mathilda No-last-name again. “Is that how you get the depth like it’s her real skin?Using lots of different paint types?” He squinted up, studying the portrait so closely.
“Yeah, something like that.” Vivian was relieved he didn’t ask about her being sick or why she needed so much lung therapy. Healthy kids didn’t understand CF and they seemed to fear an impossible contagion. She wondered what it would be like to have Leif study her that closely. Would he, could he, see beyond her outsides to the reality within?
“Wow. Cool.” They moved back toward his workstation. He was enthused. He picked up the straw again and focused on the paper in front of him. Vivian watched his expression cloud and furrow. She knew this expression—she’d seen it often when her friends bore down to do physical therapy they knew hurt but had to be done. She didn’t understand why he wore it, though. Painting didn’t hurt.
“It just takes practice,” she assured him as he blew along a dot of celestial blue (Pantone
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