A Gallery Evening

How apropos, Eden thought.  An invitation to an opening at Glazé Galleria.  Most likely all connected with the Renwick’s latest display of ceramics for which she got partial credit—and blame for that allegedly broken piece.  For her career it was good to be seen, so it was a welcomed invitation.  One never knew what connections could be made at these events.  Still, they could be such a drag.  Also, this was the type of event Tomas would attend.  Well, his real name was Tom, but the artiste in him demanded more.  They had dated for about four months until Eden realized what he saw in her was a glorification of himself.  Boy, did he misread the situation.

She didn’t want to show up at an event like this alone, so she asked her roommates. You would think they’d be up for bad wine and a few nibbles, but no. They all pretended they were busy, perhaps because they had come to one of these events with her before.  Maybe she should skip it?  But, if you’re not seen, you’re not seen.   And women curators were already invisible.  Professionally, she felt she had to go.  But alone?  Circumnavigating the gallery, looking for someone to impart her brilliant observations to?  Oh well.

But then Eden thought, she knew someone weird.  If he dressed right and kept his mouth shut, he might just pass for someone who circled around the vortex of her world.  Of course, he was probably overseas or “busy.”  But what the hell.  So she texted Steve Applebaum.  “Any plans for Thursday night, 6 p.m.?”

An hour later she got a text back.  “Why?”

“Gallery opening.  Wine, nibbles.  No cost to either of us, except psychically.  Also, meet you there, so no transportation issues.”

“It sounds—delightful?”

“If you can make it, can you leave your hair the usual mess and wear a turtleneck and tight jeans. Or a shirt with collar but top two buttons open, a blazer and jeans?”

“You didn’t say this was a costume party.”

“Life is a costume party.  Don’t you agree?”

“What will you be wearing?  Red sequined bra and harem pants?”

“You wish!”

“I have my doubts about this, but on the other hand would love to spend more time in your delightful company.”

There was something slightly insincere about that compound sentence, but Eden texted him the address and told him to be prompt as possible because she didn’t want to be alone when she met a certain person.

When Thursday night came, Eden went to the Glazé Galleria straight from work.  Before she left the Renwick, she redid her makeup, more blush, darker lipstick, dramatic eyes.  Then down into the Metro she went, and five stops and one switch later, up into the bright lights of Trendyville.

Glazé Galleria was ablaze.  People were already milling about inside, but she couldn’t catch sight of the Einstein hair until—oh, there he was, walking down the sidewalk toward her.  Dressed in a suit and tie.  She put her hand on her hip.  Couldn’t he follow a simple direction?  “Where’s the outfit?” she asked him.

“Don’t you think they’d be glad to see someone who has money?”

“The exhibit’s probably crap.”

“Then—why are we here?”

“For my work.”

“And you needed me for your work?”

“Just in case this guy I used to date shows up.”

“What should I do then?”

How dense was Steve?  “Pretend you like me.”

“Do I get an Actor’s Equity card?”

“Ha ha. Let’s go.”

She let him usher her inside, where she had to give up her coat.  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to him. “I have a couple of dollars for the tip.”

“Whew.”

Then somehow they got separated, as she spotted one of her former co-workers from the National Gallery.  They caught up on gossip, while Steve was left to wander around.  She later spotted him talking to a woman with a long black  braid down her back and wearing something slightly Incan.  Wandering over, Eden could hear them speaking Spanish to one another.  Eden had taken Spanish in high school for a year.  She knew how to say “cerveza.”

Joining their circle of two, Steve introduced Eden to Chasca, one name only, the artist.  “We were discussing the lengths Chasca took to locate the exact right clay for her work.  Eden has just curated a ceramics display for the Renwick,” Steve politely included Eden in the conversation.

“I heard about the broken piece,” Chasca said.

“Allegedly broken,” Eden corrected.

“Eden,” her name was called.  Damn it.  Tomas.

“Oh, hi,” she said, turning to him with bright smile, hoping there was no lipstick on her front teeth. “Steve, Chasca, this is Tom.”

“Tomas,” he corrected her.  Tomas at least was wearing a turtleneck and jeans, and loafers with no socks.  He’d added an earring since she last saw him.  Still looking good, tall, slender, curly blond hair.  “Chasca, marvelous work!  So inspiring! Indigenously speaking.”  He turned to Steve.  “And you?  An artist also?”

“Nope.  Just here with Eden.  She likes to enlighten me.”  He smiled and then rubbed the back of his hand down Eden’s cheek.

The owner of the gallery was calling for Chasca, who excused herself, leaving Tomas, Steve and Eden alone together, which gave Tomas time to direct his attention to Eden and fill her in on his new position as art critic for Gallery Times.”

“Isn’t that a throw-away,” Eden said, rather meanly.

“It’s delivered to every cultural institution in the city, also the Virginia suburbs.  So this is part of my work.  It does occasionally get tiresome, as you can imagine.  So many artists, so much dreck.”

It was on the tip of Eden’s tongue to make the appropriate response, but Steve gave her a warning look.  Did she really have to behave with an ex?  “Sounds like fascinating work to me,” Steve put in quickly, just in case Eden did decide to open her mouth.

“And you?” Tomas asked him.

Shrugging, Steve said, “Just a cog in an enormous wheel.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Washington for you.”  Then Tomas changed the subject rather abruptly.  “So how long has this—“  He waved his hand between the two of them.

Steve looked down at Eden from his great height seven inches taller than she and said, “It seems like forever, doesn’t it, Sweetie.”

Demurely she cast a glance upward.  “Yes, Sweet.  That’s what we call one another, Sweetie and Sweet.  Now I have got to look at Chasca’s pieces because I’ve been so busy networking—you know how it is, Tom—that I’ve neglected what I’m really here for.  Come along, Sweet.” She took Steve’s hand and pulled him lovingly away.

“I’m either going to burst out laughing or pee in my pants,” she whispered to Steve when they were far enough into the crowd.”

“Please stifle both,” he suggested.

They wandered the gallery, looking dutifully at all the pieces.  There was a figurine Eden especially liked.  “Primitive and yet abstract.  Really talented.”  She moved closer.  “And so expensive,” she noted grimly.

An hour and a half after they arrived, having had the requisite plastic glass of wine and two mini quiches each, Eden went to retrieve her coat while Steve said he’d just say goodbye to Chasca.

“I’m hungry,” Steve said, when they made it out onto the bustling sidewalk.

“There’s a Shake Shack up the street.  Sweet.”

“Perfect.  Sweetie.”

He paid, of course.

How was she to know then that two months later, when the exhibit closed, she’d receive an insured, padded box with the figurine she so admired inside.