dimly lit hallway in the back of the gallery. I could smell the booze. I could also smell him. His skin. His clothes. Not soaked in cologne. Not done up to look fancy and nice.
It was… just Josh.
His back was against the wall, one leg bent, foot flat against the wall. His head moved almost robotically, left to right, as though he was expecting someone to catch him doing something wrong. My mind raced with all the potential storylines. Which pissed me off a little because I didn’t want to write this kind of stuff. Maybe I didn’t want to write at all. Yet, I was here. I got dressed and came here. To find him.
I stood there without a notebook or my phone out to take notes.
“I’m supposed to write something about you,” I said.
Josh looked at me. “Write what?”
“A story. Whatever I want.”
“So, you’re a reporter?”
I laughed. “Hardly. I haven’t written in a long time.”
“And here I am talking to you.”
“Only because you know me,” I said.
Josh nodded. “Yeah. I guess it’s been a while. Anyone after you right now?”
My throat closed a little. “No. I’m good. I guess.”
“Want a drink?” he asked and offered me the flask.
“Sure,” I said.
I put my lips to the flask and as I took a drink, a much younger version of myself started to giggle. An innocent voice that whispered you’re drinking from the same thing as Josh… which means it’s like kissing him… omfg…
I extended my arm and Josh wrapped his fingers around my hand and the flask. He pushed from the wall and turned to face me.
“What are you really doing here, Amelia?”
Hearing my name come from his lips sent shockwaves through me.
I wasn’t sure if he remembered my name.
“The shortened version of the story… my roommate and someone she knows, who runs a blog or site or something, thought it would be a good idea to have me come here and interview you and write up a story. Because that’s going to suddenly make me want to write again and chase down the dream I gave up.”
“Why’d you give up the dream?” Josh asked.
His hand was still wrapped tightly around mine.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just did.”
“So, if you’re going to lie to me, does that mean I can lie to you?” he asked.
“Whatever you want,” I said. “I have no idea if I’m going to write anything at all.”
“So then why’d you come?”
“To see what you’ve been up to.”
“What I’ve been up to, huh?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“You see what I’ve been up to,” Josh said.
He slowly peeled the flask out of my hand.
He took another big drink from it.
“Can I ask you about your work out there?” I asked.
“You just did.”
“So tell me about it. The one with the trees. Reaching for each other. It looks like you took a picture of a wide-open field and then added the trees by hand. But they’re not regular trees though. Each has their own… personality?”
“That’s what you see, huh?” Josh asked.
“Is that what you want everyone to see?”
He grinned. “Tell me more about these stories then. You’re a reporter?”
“No.”
“Then what do you write?”
“I used to write.”
“What did you used to write?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m here to talk about you.”
“And I don’t have to talk to anyone.”
“I guess you don’t,” I said.
“You don’t even want to write. You don’t even give a shit about being here. Maybe you shouldn’t be here then.”
Josh started to walk away.
I froze for a few seconds but then lunged forward. “What happened to you?”
He paused. He looked back. “What?”
“What happened? How did you get here? Forget the paintings. The pictures. Forget the scene out there. What about you?”
“Are you asking as a writer or something else?”
“Maybe a friend.”
“A friend, huh? Is that what we were?”
“I don’t know. But I remember you being there. And then you weren’t. And now you’re here.”
“The same for you,” Josh said. “There and gone. Me saving you. And that was always that. You want to know about the trees? You already know about the trees. Go write about it. Look at everything out there and look deeper. Create your story.”
“The story is about you, Josh.”
“And I tell that story. Always.”
“You’re not telling it to me.”
“Count the years. You think you know what you’re saying. But you don’t. Go write a book. Make something up.”
“You’re drunk. You don’t want to be out there. You’re the one that doesn’t want to be here.”