get that others recharge through Netflix binges and lazy mornings, but I am most at peace when I make something new.
Kicking a few empty pizza boxes out of the way, I pull out a portfolio from under the couch, where I keep one of my stashes of art papers and supplies. Since moving into Becca’s one-bedroom apartment, I don’t have a designated studio space, but luckily, everything I need stores flat, and I can work on pretty much any solid surface. I lay my rubbery cutting board on the rug, leafing through my collection of artisan papers, seeing if inspiration will strike. I pull out a red sheet of handmade paper speckled with tiny gold-leaf flecks. I love the soft, uneven texture of these papers, their intricate patterns and details part of a larger story. But the nice feeling drifts away when I reach for my X-Acto knife.
Holding the razor blade in my left hand feels all kinds of wrong. Awkwardly gripping the handle, I try positioning my fingers as I normally would on my right, with my left pointer finger pressed onto the top side of the tool. My hand feels like a weird, flaccid claw, clumsily wrapped around some foreign torture device. Sigh. I look at my right hand, talent trapped under layers of plaster, and curse those bastards for kidnapping me, leaving me in this broken state. But I won’t let them win, so I gracelessly press the knife into the paper, seeing if anything will come.
It’s comical, really, seeing how ridiculous my lines are with my left hand, but I don’t give up, cutting ugly shapes out of pretty paper. Even as I struggle to use the materials, it feels good to try, twists of paper shavings piling up on the floor as I go. My thoughts wander to my portfolio, due to Dean Hucksley at the end of the summer. I will not give up on this, not after I worked so hard to transfer to CAC. I do have a couple pieces I could show, but I had plans for so many more. I may need to experiment with other paper techniques, like quilling, or origami, or even hand-ripping strips of paper into something interesting. Sometimes I make scenes by adding layers of paper, creating depth as I pile on shapes. Other times, I take away, making a statement with what’s left. This is definitely a “work with what’s left” kind of scenario.
An hour or two later, I haven’t produced anything of note, but I’ve written down a couple of ideas in my terrible, left-handed scrawl. Becca comes stumbling into the living room, eyes barely open, brown hair matted to her cheek. In just a tank top and boy-short undies, she flops onto her oversize beanbag that moonlights as an armchair, reaching for a can of Cheez Whiz lying by her feet. She sprays a wad of artificial orange into her mouth.
“Um, gross much?” I say, moving my makeshift floor desk away from any possible flecks of cheez goo.
“Good morning to you too,” she gargles, swallowing down her disgusting breakfast. From the way she’s casually slumped, I don’t think she noticed I never came home last night, but to be fair, I do stay over at Matt’s a lot. Or, at least, I did. But once her eyes fully come into focus, she springs up, leaping to my side. “Hey! What happened to your hand?”
“It’s broken. I…was kidnapped again last night,” I say softly, hoping to avoid a freak-out.
“WHAT?” she yelps. “Again?” She reaches for my cast, running her fingers over the plaster. Fiery eyes look up at me as she curses, “Damn it! He broke you! That stupid boy broke you!” With last night’s mascara smudged under her eyes, she looks ready to straight-up murder my ex.
“Becca…” I start to tell her the news, but she doesn’t want to hear what I’m sure she thinks will be one of my many excuses.
“No! I’m so tired of this! Aren’t you? Jesus, B, he’s a hero; he’s supposed to freaking protect you—”
“Becca—”
“If I were this terrible at my job, I’d get fired—”
“BECCA!”
“What?”
“We broke up.”
She freezes, her rant on pause, mouth twisted open on her last rage-fueled thought. Her fury then dissolves into something softer, brown eyes cooling in sympathy. “Oh,” she says, rubbing her hands over her bare knees. Embarrassed, she lets her long, tangled waves cover her face, and it’s so quiet, I can hear her stomach rumbling. “Okay, well, get up.”