Perle gazed at the name on the shipping paperwork she held.
Just seeing the name warmed her, even etching her lips into a smile, despite the disorganized day. She didn’t realize it, until later, that the name made her mind escape, exactly like that single painting had let Alex Evans escape.
Perle sat in her office chair, left leg crossed over her right, so she could see her kitten heel slingbacks. The glossy pair was inlayed with memory foam, so her feet would not swell or get as sore. However, sore feet were a reason for the night in which she bumped into Alex Evans—the name on the paperwork.
On that amazing night, the gallery event had finished so late. With everyone gone, she had taken off her scarpin heels to ease her sore feet. Walking to the gallery’s back office, she happened into Alex. The handsome man was caught up in a painting. He would not have noticed her if she had not gasped in surprise.
The painting that had so caught him was a forgettable piece of art. “Art” may even be an inappropriate term. It was nothing more than a bland painting. It, nevertheless, had whooshed Alex back to being a thirteen-year-old alone in a neighbor’s house near a lake in Michigan of all places.
Perle had forgotten what art, or a poor painting, could do to a person. She had witnessed it though.
“…flight is at 8 am on Thursday and …” Sheila, Perle’s intern, paused. “Perle, Perle, are you listening?”
Sheila’s abrupt halt pulled Perle’s gaze away from the Alex Evans shipping document.
For a moment, her detailed intern was far away and blurry. Perle refocused her eyes.
“I’m listening,” Perle said dully. Then another distant statement whooshed from her mouth. “I want to ship another piece.”
“All right, Ms. Feine. Which piece? I can get the shipping paperwork started. The trip to Texas might delay it if we don’t tackle it now.” Sheila pulled out her notebook and pen. “I will just need the invoice and the address. How soon do you want it to arrive?”
Before answering, the two women heard the front door of the gallery open.
“Leo is finally here,” Sheila said. “Always late. Frustrating.”
She met him on the gallery floor and led the short, wiry man into the office.
“Perle.” He nodded. “Again.”
He flopped into the empty chair as if he was a wet rag.
In the past months, Perle had tired of his flippant attitude and lifestyle. But she had admitted that these were the unique artists who were producing intriguing works of art that she was selling. The untoward art came from the untoward artist.
“When we flying to the Wild, Wild West?” Leo snarked. “Going is really fucking with my energy, you know. I’m already losing my edge. I don’t want to come back with a cow aura.”
“A cow aura? Ha!” Perle laughed briefly. “The one who bought the artwork wants to meet the real ‘Leo Meridian’. His purchase lends you credibility, so—”
“Yeah, you said it before.” Leo let his head fall back. He stared upward. “Nothing more than me giving a blowjob.”
Perle knew her mother would have whacked the back of her head for that attitude and ingratitude. Even harder for saying such a rude statement.
Then Sheila interjected. “The buyer put money in your pocket. Remember that.”
Perle frowned at her intern. Perle would have felt her father’s massive hand pop the side of her head for interjecting into a conversation that wasn’t hers.
Leo snapped at Sheila.
“In my pocket? Yours too, bitch, and this fucking gallery. I’m no capitalist artist. Out for money. I could just as well live without yours or this buyer’s.”
Sheila heaved in a breath to counter the rudeness. Perle hushed her though.
Perle calmed Leo too.
“It’s an opportunity, Leo, not a chore. A handshake and a dinner. A tour of his collection.”
“Sounds like a handjob and a booty-shake.”
“Either way,” Perle said, “our flight is leaving Wednesday. We’ll keep your tickets, so you have one less concern.”
“Ms. Feine,” Sheila said softly, “the flight is 8 am Thursday, not Wednesday.”
“That’s what I meant. Leo, just come with a sort of decent attitude. It’s in your long-term interest.”
Leo stood. His face was sour.
“8 on Thursday. No private jet?”
“No.”
“So much for a sale,” he said and then left.
Sheila shook her head. “My goodness, I’m glad he’s gone. How could someone be raised to be such an ungrateful asshole!”
“I’m not sure. There are plenty out there, and the art world is full of them.”
“We have so many more grateful artists who would go happily,” Sheila said.
Perle shrugged. “Why is life like it is? No one knows and no one likes it.”
Perle picked up the shipping paperwork. The name of Alex Evans eased the frustration of everything around her.
“You mentioned shipping another painting,” Sheila said.
“The Hockerman.”
Sheila was surprised. “Will there even be a cost? You hate it enough to give it away.”
“I do plan to give it away. A gift.”
“A white elephant gift? At least, now we have a place for a better piece. When and where is the Hockerman going?”
“Alex Evans—same address as Leo’s piece. I want it there when we arrive.”
Sheila studied her boss as Perle’s eyes glazed over. “Everything okay, Perle? Tell me if the trip is stressing. I know it’s another effort to add to a busy schedule. I can arrange a massage.”
Perle just held out the Alex Evans shipping paperwork. “Use the same address as this.”
“I’ll get it crated. Is this cost on the gallery?”
“No, it’s on me.”
Later, riding in the backseat of a taxi, Perle’s mind lingered on Alex. Would he like that she gave him the painting? There was even a small fear he might not even recall it.
The reflections of the streetlights and stores’ signs sped along the windows of the sedan. It triggered her own good memories of being thirteen again. A girl visiting the big city. She wondered if Alex would again want to revisit his younger life, like he had in the gallery. Unlike that night, she was ready to share, if he wanted. Yet, she had worries about him remembering their interaction. Had he shoved the evening from his mind?
In the slow apartment elevator, the stainless steel door reflected her—a female form. It was sort of like the woman in the Hockerman painting. Perle turned to the side to see her shapeliness. Would Alex connect her to the painting? Could she become the woman that affected him so deeply this many years later? Still, there remained that fear he forgot her—forgot everything.
She had never forgotten. Quite the opposite. Ever since their night in the gallery, she was easily caught off balance because he lingered in her mind. Sheila had noticed. That was obvious, although she left it as an observation.
Stepping into her apartment, Perle’s thoughts on Alex evaporated instantly.
She set aside her tote bag.
“Leo, you’re here again?”
He kicked his feet off the couch.
“My place is so small,” he whined. “And there’s construction work on the street. It’s terrorizing me.”
Perle hung up her jacket. Irritation was smeared on her face.
Leo rushed to the kitchen.
“I brought you a sandwich from the bodega and a big salad. I know you like them.”
“A big salad and a sub? Quite a bit of food for just me.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure which one you wanted, so I got you both.”
“And you’d get the other one. Such a child.”
“I was being thoughtful.”
“Instead of buying food, why not be a little more polite at the gallery?”
“It’s my persona. Warhol had one, so does Ai WeiWei. I need mine.”
Perle peeled back the wrapping over the container of salad.
“But to me?” Perle’s face cringed. “Leo, yuck. There’re onions and boiled eggs on this.”
“Sheila does not need to know me like you do,” he said and added, “Sorry, I forgot you hate them.”
Perle picked off the smelly onions and the squishy eggs with the very tip of the plastic fork.
“And you need to stop coming over here.” Perle tossed the onions and eggs, as well as the fork, into the trashcan. “Sheila is very sharp. She’s going to notice—if she hasn’t already.”
Her new fork crunched into the crisp, green lettuce.
Leo leaned on the counter. “Forget Sheila. We can just say we’re meeting to deal with my art and attitude.”
He slid the wrapped sandwich his way.
They ate without talking.
After a few bites, Perle left to change from her work outfit. She put on leggings and an oversized sweater. The clothing choice was more about conveying to Leo she was not interested than it was for after-work comfort.
“Leo,” she said as she again picked through the salad, “things may be changing.”
“Changing? Us or the gallery?”
“We’re working together on yours and my business. I will drop you if you don’t produce.”
“I know.” He cowered.
“As for us, you’re young, immature. I think I’m growing.” A sweet cherry tomato broke open in her mouth.
He spoke through a mouthful of the sandwich. “So am I. But can I still come late at night? You like it late.”
Perle scanned the dark eyes that she had come to like.
“No. No more pop-ins or ‘I was in the neighborhood,’” she said. “We’re partners—business partners only.”
“Then cancel my ticket to—where the hell is it—Texas. I’m not going!” His teeth tore apart the sub defiantly.
“Boy, you are fucking going. And,” she retorted, with the point of her fork, “you will have a good attitude or I swear to god …”
“Fine,” Leo grumped, like a child. He grounded the food in his mouth.
Soon, Leo settled in front of Perle’s TV since he did not have his own. He ended up watching a romantic comedy.
Perle kept a full cushion between her and him.
On the screen, the attraction of the characters brought Alex to mind again.
He was as intriguing as much as handsome. He made that night at the gallery amazing. A night to reminisce on forever.
Since then, she had let her mind piddle with the thoughts of Alex. As he described it—a young teen staring at the mostly nude but obscured woman in a painting. Perle had become that painted woman, and she used her magic to draw him from reality, even decades later, to see her.
He was fresh-faced and thin. Suntanned golden from the summer on the lake. A swath of adolescently mussed-up black hair. A kid just starting to recognize girls.
Leo interrupted Perle’s thoughts. “Well, that’s over. I guess I’ll go.”
His comment lingered, as if she might offer him the soft couch to sleep on.
She didn’t. “Come to the buyer’s place with a decent attitude,” she said.
“There’s something you can do now to force me into a good attitude.”
“I put away the cage. It’s not coming out again.” She huffed. “Go, Leo.”
“I love when you say my name all mean.”
She only pointed to the door. Not speaking his name.
The TV turned off. The apartment went quiet. No lights were on.
She went to her bedroom to dream more about Alex.
She got under her soft bedsheet and a warm blanket.
Elise 2, her luscious plum vibrator, touched her between her legs. Her hips jumped at the fast buzz. After easing the speed, her mind wandered.
In her imagination, the painting was twice as long and tall as young Alex was. He was a mere silhouette—a thin boy, in front of the broad, fully-developed Perle.
He stood stock-still. His mouth opened and eyes glued to her.
In the stupor, his mind was unsure of what to do next.
“Alex,” she said softly through her painted lips, “it’s okay to look at me. Tell me what you think.”
“Boobs,” the teenaged kid muttered.
Perle giggled at the simplicity of this answer. Males, the rudiments of masculinity are never outgrown. Her breasts he noticed, not so the smooth contours of her hips or slender fingers. Her svelte neck or long locks didn’t catch his attention.
“Do they make you feel something?” Perle asked.
He nodded.
“What is it?” she asked, like a loving queen calming a frightened and confused servant.
“Good,” he said.
“And when I do this?” Perle cupped her breasts, raising them gently. She brushed her forefingers over her sharp nipples.
Alex only nodded and rustled his hair.
Perle upped Elise from a murmur to pulsations.
She noticed Alex’s hands weren’t thin and smooth of a boy, like the boy who was standing there. They were tough with large knuckles. The right hand’s veteran fingers had trapped a long cock. The cock kept growing and straightening.
“God, that is good,” Perle vouched. “Please, do it for me, to me. No one will know. Look around. We’re alone. Just you and me.”
The heavy hand stroked. Slow and even for a while. She slid her tongue over a nipple.
His strokes quickened.
Perle pushed Elise into her pussy, feeling Alex push deep inside.
“Yes, keep going, Alex. I want to be the one in your painting.”
Perle’s vibrator bumped into her at the pleasure spot. It caused body-shaking sensations, and she surrendered to an unforgettable orgasm.
Soon, she pulled out Elise and looked at Alex. “You did good.”
On Thursday, the airplane landed in Texas. Perle and Leo, who had put on his attitude again, were ushered to a gated ranch.
“I am going to hate this. I smell cow shit already,” Leo grumbled.
On the long driveway to the house, Perle’s stomach churned. Gallery business, professionalism, and craving wrestled inside her gut.
The tall front door opened.
Perle calmed her breathing.
Alex appeared, coolly.
Would he remember anything?
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