Chapter Sixteen Comfortable and Confident 10 страница

He scoffed, yet again. “I already know these things, Frank. Quit being redundant,” he warned, his voice suddenly growing austere, but for a mere split second. I knew he wasn’t mad at me then, just his own faults we were both now well aware of.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, my head hanging down.

“No, it’s okay,” Gerard insisted, squeezing the hand that was on his chest. “You’re just stating the obvious, Frank. It’s knowledge I already know. It would be like me telling you you’re short.”

“Hey,” I cut in, brows forming down in a V pattern.

I always got defensive about my height. I hated being as tall as most girls I knew. And I couldn’t help the fact that I had inherited my mother’s short legs. Then again, Gerard couldn’t help the fact that he was aging.

“You’re sensitive about height, I am about my hair,” Gerard teased, making a joke to clear the air. It was only a second before the small bursts of laughter died down, and were replaced by tension, gripping me once again.

“Gerard, you’re –“ Thankfully, he cut me off, before I could be redundant yet again.

“Old? Yes, I know,” he breathed the words quick, trying to forget about them. He waved one of his hands in the air, as if to shoo them away. When he caught a look in my eyes, he stopped being so apathetic. He may not have wanted to talk about his age, declaring it frivolous and unimportant, but I did want to talk. I needed to talk; I was practically squirming in my own skin. He saw that, and realized he needed to help me. His eyes grew more caring, sensing my inner turmoil and easing it with his hands caressing my back softly, words hitting my eardrums.

“Is there anything wrong with age?” He hushed the words by quickly, not giving me much of a chance to respond. “It’s just numbers and figures. We don’t need math in this society. We need ar-”

It was my turn to cut him off now, finally letting my answers get through. “We need art, I know,” I told him, waving my own hand in the air. I mocked his actions skillfully, my face growing concerned. I dropped my hand back down to his chest, focusing the attention on us. “But not everyone will understand this. I’m not understanding it…”

“Not everyone understands art either, Frank. Even you at first,” he retorted, his voice piercing the air that was too thick to move in. He sighed and continued when I didn’t give much of a response. “When it comes to art, there are two different types of people. The first kind looks at the picture, and then goes to look at another. They know they are viewing art, but they don’t understand what art really is. They cannot comprehend that art is all around them – in a variety of forms. To them, Rembrandt and Pollock did the same thing – make pretty pictures.” He lifted up his hands and waved his fingers with a snide voice, mocking his own words. I bit back any pondering as to who Rembrandt was and what he had painted. “They don’t, and most, won’t understand that art is everywhere; hiding under rocks and stones, around corners, and in alleys. In garbage cans and inside dirty old apartment buildings.”

His last line made my heart flutter. I knew that we were that art in dirty apartment buildings he was talking about.

“What’s the other type of person?” I asked Gerard, his gaze meeting mine.

“Ah,” he breathed, smile inching across his serious face. “This kind is my favorite. They are the type of person who will look skillfully at each piece, notice the brush strokes and the thickness of the paint on the canvas. They will question why the artist chose to paint this, as well as what they think it means. But when they step outside of the museum, their eyes don’t stop analyzing the beauty they see all around them. To them, Rembrandt and Pollock and Picasso are very, very different painters, and each of their pieces are very, very different, too. They do not lump together everything in art, and therefore don’t lump together everything in life. They know the rules, the guidelines for things, but they know where there is an exception. They know that the Sistine Chapel is a work of art by modern standards, but it’s no better or no different than the graffiti on the side of that dirty apartment building.”

When he was done, there was a dulled aggravation to his voice. He was tranquil in the way he laid his head into the thickness of the pillow, but a somber quality, heightened by the darkness of the room, dragged its way across his face. It made the wrinkles I was seeing deeper, and the meaning transcend into my small, pitiful little mind.

Gerard was the second type of person. He saw art all around him, and not only that, but he saw exceptions. He knew when to break the rules, and he did it often enough. It wasn’t even breaking to him, because it was meant to be that way in the first place. Gerard was the second type, but I could tell from that despair etched into his pursed lips that he was giving way to believe that I was still closed into that first category.

It made my heart drop. I knew I had been that way in the past. Prior to meeting the artist, and even during the first few weeks of my visiting him, art was just art to me. I never appreciated it. But I wasn’t like that anymore, or at least I thought I wasn’t. I had been growing up, and I had been understanding art.

I didn’t know who Rembrandt was, I found myself thinking. I didn’t know what Gerard was talking about. I hadn’t come as far as I thought I had, especially as I began to focus more and more on his gray hairs, other than on what he had said in the first place.

“Sadly,” his voice drew me from my thoughts, thankfully. He spoke with a deliberate pace, and looked down at his age-spot hand superficially. “The first type of person is way too common, and the second type is not nearly common enough.”

He drew his eyes to me, and I felt my heart sink inside my chest and lodge at the bottom. His eyes, normally green, had lost their colour in the dark. He could not be giving up on me, giving up on this, now, I told myself callously. No, not because of his age. I knew that there were so many other people and things in the world that would tear us apart. There were too many type ones, and not enough twos. I wanted to be in that two category with Gerard so badly I could feel it hurting inside. And yet, with all this pain, all this want and desire and passion to be with him, I couldn’t speak. I didn’t say a damn thing to defend myself, to defend Gerard. I was silent and mute, hoping that this would fix itself. Even if it did, I still knew I probably couldn’t find it in myself to just let go. Maybe it was easier for Gerard to deny his age because he had more life experience and he just knew how to, but I was still learning.

He found the vigor to sit up suddenly, using his elbow and then propping himself against the headboard. I went up with him, partly dragged by his hand that I was still clutching for dear life, for our life. I was shaky in my movements, unsure of what was to come. Gerard noticed and with strong hands and eyes, touched me on my cheek, moving me forward to look at him. I did, our eyes meeting and darting across the irises and pupils, scanning each person wholly. Gerard wanted me to just look at him, his eyes and not his age, and though I could do that, I still couldn’t let it all go.

Gerard was old. I was young. And this was just so bizarre.

“If you want to stop this, Frank,” Gerard whispered softly, our foreheads drawn together, but lips still far apart. His voice grew even more concerned and I could have sworn I detected a little depression as well, something so atypical from the constantly smiling artist.

“Just say the words. We can stop this. You can say no; you don’t have to be with me. You can put on your clothes and go home and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

“But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” I suddenly found my voice, located deep within my heart. I started to say what I was thinking without any thought behind it, and once the words were out in the open, I could look at them objectively.

I really didn’t want this to be pretend, a mistake, a flaw - just like the one on Gerard’s hand, which was still gripping the side of my face. I didn’t want to forget this. Gerard was teaching me so much, either about art or life in general. It was true, he could still be my teacher, just with our clothing on and not panting hard, but I still didn’t want that. Once I had everything, it was hard to go back to nothing, or even just something. I wanted to keep interacting with him like I was. When we were together, not just as a teacher and student, but as two people naked in each other’s arms, it was so much easier to learn, grow, and just be. I needed Gerard as a teacher, but I needed him more as a lover, friend – whatever the hell we were then. I knew that if we ended this the way it was now, my confusion in the forefront of my mind, that I would never, ever be a type two person. I would always be a one. I didn’t want to be a one. I needed to work past this; I couldn’t let it be over.

The freedom conversation came back into my mind from earlier that day. We could be free, if we let ourselves. Age was getting in the way of that, becoming those shackles that were needed, but not always necessary. Age was needed so we knew the danger in front of us, but we could choose to break free. Age was only numbers and figures. We didn’t need those to survive. We needed love, passion, and art to survive. Gerard was all of those things to me, and growing to be more every second. In freedom, I needed to find what I wanted, and God, I wanted Gerard. Looking at him right then, and the sheer desperation that must have been displayed in both of our eyes, made me see it ten times clearer. I wanted to be myself, but I needed Gerard to help that transition along in me. I wanted him.

Yes, he was forty-seven years old. I knew that fact and could deal with it. He was also a man. Both of those things I never thought I would even consider being with, but here I was, naked in his bed, his hand on my face, foreheads pressed together and kisses still fresh on our lips. He may have been all those things, unattractive at best, but he was making sure I was okay. He was telling me that if I wanted out, I could get out, and it wasn’t the first time he presented this opportunity. That spoke louder than gray hair and age spots ever could.

“I want this to keep happening,” I told him honestly, my eyes boring deep into him. I saw him crack a smile and the creases, those creases that showed just how old he was, deepen.

He wanted to keep me too.

“Then we can keep this happening, however long you want, however long you need,” Gerard spoke earnestly.

His hands had made their way off of my face, slinking behind and grasping the nape of my neck. He pulled me into a hug, which I accepted and shifted closer, our bare flesh touching and sparking something together. Something I couldn’t name yet, but I had a feeling it would be good.

“You remember when you quoted my words, Frank?” Gerard asked suddenly, still in the embrace. His head was on my shoulder, sharp chin pressed into me. I pulled away and looked at him skeptically, unsure of what he meant.

“When I was going to draw you,” he clarified, motioning with one hand he had removed from my arm. “Before all of this happened. I had said that you could make a painting anything you wanted. Orange sky, blue grass, red dirt. Anything was possible.” Gerard paused, letting me relish in the memory that wasn’t very long ago at all.

“You told me to make you older so I could let myself be with you.” He drew out his words, elongating them as he cocked his head to the side, making me follow on his train of thought. He nodded with a smile, continuing when he saw my eyes light up.

“Make me younger, Frank. Do the same to be with me. Make me your own work of art.”

I breathed out a contented sigh, the words and memories hitting me like a good blow to the face, if that was possible. I leaned forward into the embrace again, our lips meeting in a kiss, my mouth opening so I could breathe all of him into me. I was so grateful to have him then, to hold him in my arms. In that moment the fact that we never could go back to being student and teacher (even if I had wanted to) was chiseled inside my brain, embedded inside of me someplace I had yet to find. He had seen too much of me, and I had seen too much of him to have it all go back to normal. And really, we were only just beginning.

We kissed for a while, hunger coming into the embrace, my teeth nibbling on his bottom lip awhile before I pulled away. I didn’t go too far, but looked at his face before I began to kiss all around it softly like he had done the night we first had sex, trying to make me older. Only this time as I kissed, at first trying to make him younger, I started to realize that his imperfections, his wrinkles, his gray hairs, and yes, even his age spots, were what I wanted from him. He got those seemingly imperfect flaws from living his life, from being himself, and that was who I wanted. He needed to have experienced things to make him wrinkle so that he could teach me about them later on. He needed to tell me those stories so I could learn and hopefully tell my own some day (who knew, he may even be a part of that future tale). I even needed his age spots to remind me of my grandmother, and realize the distinction of true age. Age was only numbers, but the markings he had from those years gone by, those were the real triumph. Those were what I really wanted, and their negative connotation didn’t matter anymore. I just wanted Gerard as a person.

My embraces moved slower as my thoughts collided on planes of realization. I ended my journey with a quick kiss on his forehead, before settling back down to our previous position, smug smile adorning my countenance.

“Done so soon?” he asked, getting the playful tone back to his voice. He furrowed his brows in confusion, but couldn’t hide the pleased air to his voice. I nodded, my grin still across half of my face.

“There wasn’t anything I needed to change,” I told him with the same affectionate arrogance he always possessed.

The corners of his mouth faltered, growing weak as his eyebrows knitted in the centre of his forehead. I could see the excitement and happiness bouncing inside his olive eyes like a young child on Christmas day, cascading bright lights and colours of shiny wrapping paper and arraying bows. And for once, Gerard didn’t say a word. He was quiet and just let everything happen, appreciating it all. He let us kiss again, taking tongues into each other’s mouths over and over again, this time with a new lease on life.

We felt more comfortable with each other, something I didn’t think was possible. We just kept growing and growing more together, and even if we appeared to be tripping a lot of the time, we picked ourselves right back up again. It seemed so essentially easy, too.

When our kissing finally led us down to the bed, covers over top of our bare bodies, sleep clung to our eyes and I couldn’t believe that it had only been the night before when we had first really been together as all we were just then. It felt like a lifetime ago. Ages ago.

And really, maybe it was.