38. Envy of God (chap. 2)-Eric




• Heide sits perched on a black papasan. She smokes a cherry clove cigarette and glowers at the man in her living room, Tanner.
  
  Each exhale from the cigarette appears as a subtle, yet commited attempt to poison the air surrounding him. Ashes from her clove fleck his red and grey striped rugby suit.
  
  He is standing in front of her easel in clumps of mud he has tracked in. Muddy footprints follow him to the easel where he sorts through several charcoal drawings. With each swish of the paper, Heide feels more and more violated. This pseudoperson is undressing her, right in her own living room, and there's nothing she can do about it.
  
  "I like this one. You can just see the torment in his eyes. Amazing job on that. And, I love the metaphor. His music is his soul and you're representing this concept through his amalgamation, half man, half musical instrument. It looks like a study in Cubism. Yeah I'll definitely take it," says Tanner, stifling his giddyness.
  
  She looks away from him, rolling her eyes. She palms a sharp metal stylus. Her hands fiddle with it like a new toy, not knowing exactly what to do with it.
  
  "Thanks, it took a lot of inspiration for that one. It was hard finding a reference for it."
  
  "Huh?"
  
  "A reference is a model. Never mind. How about three-hundred?"
  
  "Three hundred? I thought I was the one who was supposed to start the first offer."
  
  "Three-hundred fifty!"
  
  "Wha-"
  
  "If you track mud on my floor ever again you can find someone else to impress your girlfriend."
  
  Tanner turns completely around and stares her down.
  
  "You don't even have your own studio, you work for someone else. I'm not saying your work isn't worth it, it is! It's just your demeanor."
  
  Heide springs off the papasan, clicking and unclicking the stylus like a nervous engine piston.
  
  "My demeanor? You come in here, acting like some kind of aficionado, tracking mud all over my apartment. There's nothing remotely resembling cubism in this sketch. You're so full of shit you can't even play a good art fag. And I know you're buying these to get into Bailor. What are they going to do when your work doesn't live up to your fake portfolio? What's your girlfriend going to think about you?"
  
  Tanner points his finger at her like a gun.
  
  "How did you know about that?"
  
  "Look, give me the money and get the fuck out of my apartment."
  
  Tanner digs nervously through his pocket and extends his shaky hand, holding a wad of rolled up bills. She takes it and he leaves.
  
  "It would be a disgrace to try and turn him into something beautiful. It would mar the face of art."
  
  She unrolls the wad of cash and counts it.
  
  "Four-hundred fifteen dollars. Good. Irene could use a little extra."
  
  She puts the wad of cash in her purse and walks out. She shuffles down the railing to the lower apartment and knocks on the door. A thin layer of ice sheets the windows. Irene, an elderly lady answers the door. She is wrapped in a flowered comforter, shivering.
  
  Heide opens her hand.
  
  "Here's the money I owe you."
  
  "Money? For what?"
  
  "Remember that time you posed for me?"
  
  Irene tilts her head; her teeth chatter. She doesn't answer.
  
  "It was a long time ago. Never mind, just take it. I did good this week."
  
  Through the thick comforter and chattering teeth, the warmth of her eyes and smile seem to take Heide in, like a sunny beach in the midst of a white winter field.
  
  Heide smiles, and climbs back up the stairs. Irene hurries inside, warming her hands over her gas stove. The comforter flops to the kitchen floor as she counts the money.
  
  "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, oh my gosh. A hundred and fifty dollars?"
  
  Irene runs to her kitchen table, almost tripping over the comforter. She smiles at her electric bill like a new born baby.