I watched as he typed River North art exhibition into the search bar, reminding myself there was no point in getting excited, or thinking that maybe my luck was finally starting to improve, until I saw what this show was about. Despite my best efforts at staying calm, though, my palms were already sweating by the time Scott found what he was looking for and turned his tablet around so I could see it.
“Oh,” I said, pleasantly surprised when I saw the theme listed at the top of the call for submissions. “They’re asking for pieces inspired by contemporary society.”
“That’s great,” Scott said. “It doesn’t get more contemporary than what you do.”
I hummed in agreement, scrolling down the page. It only got better the more I read.
“It looks like all mediums are welcome,” I said, my smile growing. “Including multimedia works.” My pieces, which combined traditional oil and watercolor paintings with found objects, were the very definition of multimedia.
Scott tapped the bottom of the screen, where the prizes were listed. “Did you notice that the grand prize is a cash award of one thousand dollars?”
My throat went dry. There would also be a few smaller awards given out for excellence in different categories, and I’d be delighted to win any of them because the most important thing about winning a prize at a juried art show is the recognition that comes with it, but . . .
Well, a thousand dollars would really come in handy.
“The fine print here says only twenty applicants will be selected,” I said, feeling the familiar beginnings of doubt creeping in. This had the makings of an incredibly competitive selection process. Getting into it in the first place would probably be a tall order.
“You never know if you don’t try,” Scott said, not unkindly. “You should go for it, Cassie.”
I handed Scott back his tablet and took a deep breath. “I should,” I agreed. Maybe nothing would come of it, just like nothing had come from most of my attempts to get recognition for my art these past few years.
Then again, maybe my luck was finally starting to turn around.
* * *
Frederick wasn’t home when I got back from the studio that evening.
I didn’t see him the next day—or evening—either.
Running into him again at some point was inevitable, of course. We lived together. But hopefully the longer we put that off, the less awkward the inevitable would be. In the meantime, our conversations, such as they were, were limited to notes we left for each other on the kitchen table. They mostly concerned the logistics of our living arrangement and, honestly? It was easier that way. Frederick made no reference in any of his notes to having seen me almost naked the other night. Neither did I. It was like we’d reached some unspoken agreement to pretend nothing awkward, or hot, or awkwardly hot had ever happened between us.
It was probably for the best. Sam would think so, anyway.
Even if my mind kept replaying that moment when Frederick and I bumped into each other after my shower when I should have been focusing on other things.
Dear Miss Greenberg,
I do not wish to be a nag, but please do remember to collect your discarded socks from the living room floor before retiring to bed. I just slipped on a sock I know isn’t mine on my way to the door and very nearly injured myself.
(Also, I must ask—are fuzzy blue knee socks with green puppets on them the current style?)
With kind regards,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
Frederick,
Ack! So sorry about the socks! I’ll do better, I promise.
And no, HA, fuzzy Kermit the Frog socks are not “the current style.” OBVIOUSLY, hahahaha. You’re hilarious. Those were a joke from my friend Sam.
Also, before I forget could you please remember to give me your WiFi network name and password? Sorry to keep harping on this, but I’ve been using my phone as a hotspot since moving in, and it eats through my data.
Cassie
Dear Miss Greenberg,
I had not intended to be funny in my note to you, though I am pleased to have made you laugh regardless.
On an unrelated note, the woman who lives on the second floor just informed me Thursday is “trash day.” I was unaware of this, as I am not in the regular habit of throwing things away.
Now that there are two of us here we might want to participate in this weekly ritual. I assume you throw things away? If so, would you be so kind as to procure a rubbish bin? I do not own one, nor do I know what one costs or how one would go about obtaining one. I will deduct whatever you spend in purchasing one from your monthly rent.
With kind regards,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
ps: Regarding your questions concerning WiFi and network names and passwords I do not believe I have any of those things, but I will confer with Reginald and let you know.
I stared at that note for a while before replying to it.
How could a grown adult not have a trash can? And not know where to get one?
And he didn’t know if he had Wi-Fi? That had to be another of his peculiarly dry jokes. I’d follow up with him about that the next time I saw him.
Frederick—I don’t throw much away either. I don’t like getting rid of anything that might have a use later, especially since upcycling is a big part of my art. But on principle I feel like two grown-ups should own at least one single trash can between them. Right? I’ll get one at Target after work.
Cassie
ps: Why do you keep calling me Miss Greenberg? There’s no need for us to be so formal with each other, is there? Just call me Cassie. :)
Before I could talk myself out of it, I added a quick smiling sketch of myself, holding a garbage can in my arms, before leaving the note on the kitchen table. I hadn’t drawn little cartoon figures in a while, and I told myself it was good practice to drown out the voice in my head yelling at me for flirting with him.
Frederick’s reply was waiting for me on the table when I got home from work with our brand-new kitchen trash can.
Dear Miss Greenberg Cassie,
The picture you drew for me on your latest note is lovely. Is that meant to be you? You clearly have a great deal of talent.
Thank you for handling the rubbish bin situation.
Per your request, going forward I will do my best to refer to you by your first name rather than “Miss Greenberg.” However, calling you “Cassie” goes against both my upbringing and my instincts. As such, please be patient with me if I occasionally forget and revert to more formal manners of address.