A Loving Perspective

Chapter One

The painting in front of her was anguish. Or rather it portrayed anguish: deep whorls of black and the faded red of dried blood on old bandages long past the need for changing. As her eyes traveled across the canvas, she realized she needed something to go wrong in her life.

Anika knew that wasn’t a responsible or even reasonable outlook, but, staring at the artwork in front of her, she knew it was true, too.

Her phone buzzed in her jeans and she ignored it for a few moments before pulling it out. It was an alarm, and the screen flashed YOU HAVE A DATE. DO NOT STAND THIS ONE UP.

Mm, she grunted, dismissing the alarm and returning her attention to the painting. In the center, the whorls circled a mess of lines. Anika never really asked artists to explain their work; the work was meant to speak for itself, meant to be interpreted. She personally didn’t like when people wanted to know the black-and-white of her photography — for different reasons. Sometimes it was because the answer was too personal. Sometimes it was because the answer wasn’t as simple as all that. And the people who enjoyed her work — while they often did pay to enjoy it, they didn’t pay for therapy, and some therapy was necessary to unravel what she was saying in many of her shots.

But the knot of lines in the painting in front of her was something she wished she knew more about. She could guess at the emotions that would create a knot of lines, of wires, choking each other, choking the space on the canvas. Choking the artist. Anika tilted her head at the painting, and not for the first time. Not all art came from pain, but the kind she was aching to make, the kind that was on her mind, required it. However, craving pain to create art… well, that was quite the privileged urge, and she wasn’t happy with it. She also wasn’t happy with the photography she’d produced recently. People continued to respond to it positively. It still managed to be critically acclaimed, but the praise felt cookie-cutter, vapid, really just the shine left from earlier work, work that actually had something behind it.

The only thing behind Anika’s recent work was a deadline, an expectation, an arbitrary concept she chose and executed for the sake of her gallery.

Her gallery always had a theme to the artists and pieces it showcased. This month, which was drawing to a close, the theme had been the horror of abandonment. Anika had made sure to select a range of different artists using different mediums and it had resulted in a haunting few weeks around the place. But it was only the work of the other artists that stayed with her. Her own work left her disappointed and hungry. She spent a lot of time analyzing the other pieces displayed. She tried to sift out what it was that moved her about their work, to see what it was that was missing from her photography. And so far the only thing she could determine that was different was the fact that the other artists were expressing and exorcising their own experiences with abandonment, while Anika didn’t have a lot of abandonment to draw on. She was fortunate and she was privileged, and she always had been.

Maybe she needed to spend more time thinking about the theme or motif for next month. She started to chew the skin on the inside of her bottom lip, and stopped herself. Once she started, she would continue to gnaw and nibble until she was picking strips of skin and licking at droplets of blood. And she was having dinner with her parents this weekend; the last thing she needed was yet another rant from her mother about how unladylike some of her habits were.

Anika’s phone began buzzing again, and she looked. Another alarm. It read NO, SERIOUSLY. VANESSA SET UP THIS DATE. GO. ON. THE. DATE.

Oh, goddammit, she hissed. She had forgotten about that part. Her friend Vanessa might as well be another of her sisters — of which she already had two. And every single one of them would never let her hear the end of it if she missed another date, so painstakingly set up.

The truth was, Anika was convinced, there was no way a blind date could result in a successful relationship or even a passionate experience. She didn’t know everything and she hadn’t experienced everything, but she’d never heard of anyone actually hitting it off on a date set up by someone else and living happily ever after. Or even getting some decent sex out of the deal.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try and be open to meeting someone nice, or interesting. She didn’t even require that they be both, for fuck’s sake.

She glanced back at the painting, staring at the knot of choking lines. She took a deep breath, and then turned away from the work sharply, walking briskly toward the welcome desk. The big wooden surface glowed with glossy pamphlets detailing the month’s theme and the works represented. Behind the desk a long white hall was lined with some of her black-and-white photography, all hung in floating black frames.

Shanyce, she yelled.

There were a few heartbeats of quiet, where all she could hear was the boring elevator music that played after hours, as well as the slice of the big metal fan over the reception area, but then were was the patter of quick feet and a small Afro popped out of a doorway down the pristine hall.

Yes, Ms. Johnson? Shanyce inquired with a smile.

Anika.

Shanyce’s dark eyebrows clinked together in her round face as she forced herself to say, "Yes… Anika?" Her first name sounded foreign and uncomfortable coming out of Shanyce’s mouth.

Shanyce was an excellent administrative assistant. She also made a decent bookkeeper and killer co-gallerist. She had initially been introduced to Anika as a talented grad student with earthy, feminine statues to display. They had been beautiful pieces, shaped and stained in a way that lived quietly in Anika’s head still, rent-free. But after her showing, she’d continued to volunteer. Volunteering turned into part-time. Part-time turned into full-time, and now Anika refused to let her go until there was a better opportunity out there for Shanyce, because Shanyce was a gem.

And she seemed to be allergic to using Anika’s first name, despite the fact that they’d worked together for nearly a year now.

If it’s literally painful for you to use my first name, just stick with Johnson.

"You’ve just always been the Anika Johnson, Ms. Johnson. It’s hard to replace that with Anika."

Which is… also in my name, Anika pointed out. She shrugged. I’m heading out. I just wanted to say bye and see if you needed anything or needed to update me on anything.

No, everything is peachy keen, she said.

Anika felt her left eyebrow arch. Mm, copacetic. I’m off, then. Good night. See you tomorrow.

Good night! I hope your date goes well.

Me too, Anika grumbled, giving a wave much more cheerful than she felt as she tried to prepare her mind and social battery for date-mode. Dates were really the most taxing, least rewarding things. It was hard to get excited when she saw it that way, but it was also hard not to see it that way when it was… well, true.

Anika wasn’t just on time; she was early, which was very unusual for her. She ended up grabbing a table and letting the host know who her guest was, so that hopefully he could easily find her. She ordered a drink and took her time looking through the menu.

Her date, a Mr. Tom Pryor, arrived exactly on time, which was typically the time Anika showed up for dates, if not five minutes after that. He was undeniably attractive, a bit lighter in complexion than her. She was a Kelly Rowland; he was a Michelle Williams. He had a mask on, but his eyes were smiling, and when he sat down, he took his mask off and his real smile was dazzling. She couldn’t help but smile back.

Hi, she said, holding her hand out.

He took it in his hand, in both of his hands, entirely swallowing her own. Hi. I am so sorry I am late. It’s good to see your pretty face in person, wow. And that voice — something else! I couldn’t imagine.

Anika laughed, feeling her eyebrows jump up her forehead. Wow, indeed! Thank you. You’re not late. You’re right on time!

He glanced at his watch. Am I? Great, great! I was definitely like, ‘Sheesh, sucks that she’s going to think I don’t care but I’m just not great with punctuality.’

Well, you happen to be on a date with someone who also has that problem, so you have found understanding here tonight. Anika finally pulled her hand from his. His hands were nice, his nails neat. It wasn’t a bad feeling, having his hand envelop hers. And the way his eyes sparkled at her was a nice perk, too.

Tom didn’t reply, but just continued to smile at her, almost like he was in disbelief — a very pleasant disbelief. Before she could try to strike up an actual conversation, their waiter returned, and then Tom looked to her for what he should order to drink.

None of her dates had ever asked her that before.

Oh, well… let’s see, she said, snatching the drink menu back up and running one of her manicured stiletto nails down the names. You seem like the kind of man who enjoys a good manhattan.

I haven’t had one of those in a few years, and now suddenly seems like the perfect time to remedy that, he replied, looking up at their waiter. I’ll have a manhattan, please. He drank from his glass of water. So what about me says manhattan? he asked when the man had gone.

I’m not entirely sure, Anika said, cocking her head. Something says whiskey or bourbon. Smooth. Classic. Easy to sip on.

One of Tom’s handsome eyebrows arched. That’s quite the compliment.

Anika figured the easy to sip on comment might have been more flirty than she was aiming for, but if the man couldn’t handle a little flirtation without self-destructing or becoming a slave to his divining rod, it wouldn’t work out anyway. Just an impression, of course was what she finally replied, sipping her own drink.

It’s a flattering first impression, so thank you, he said. What are you drinking on this cool evening? And would you happen to like sipping on whiskey? His expression said he was asking that question very pointedly.

She smiled at his immediate callback, but didn’t answer yet, sipping again and looking out the window where the trees that lined the street shivered in the wind, their autumnal leaves in the middle of the metamorphosis that preceded their timely death.

It was November, and November evenings in central Georgia could be a range of different temperatures. Tonight it was beautifully chilly. Anika’s thick polka-dotted scarf was finally in play, along with a sweater and boots — her favorite aesthetic, as far as wardrobe was concerned.

It’s a pineapple-gin punch, she said. And I do enjoy sipping on whiskey, yes. She smiled, tapping her nail on her glass. But I wanted something sweet tonight. Need a little sugary pick-me-up.

Long day? he asked.

Normal day, but tiring all the same.

I can relate, he said. Though I’m a bit lucky right now, as I’m on vacation.

Right, Anika said, pointing at him. You have a restaurant in Helen, right? Something with a fun name. Something-something Rust? I’m sorry, my memory is absolutely atrocious.

There’s no need to remember every detail you’ve heard about someone, really, he said reassuringly. Rust and Roost.

See, that’s fun to say. Rust and Roost, she said carefully. And how has your vacation been?

It’s been nice! Really chill. I can’t complain. Got to see my parents for a bit, caught up with some friends and their beautiful children that seem to be a constant reminder that I am very much behind on the expected timetable.

Anika laughed. Yes, I totally understand that. That is definitely the song of my people. But I’m glad you’ve had a nice time so far. It’s strange to travel and visit during a pandemic, but we all still need time away. I just wish everyone took it as seriously as it needs to be taken, so even when we do need to travel, it doesn’t prolong our time-out. Though I realize ‘time-out’ is a gross understatement, she added. And that deserves another hearty drink. And she took a long, deep draw.

Our time-out, yeah, he said soberly, his smile dipping a bit, but then their waiter appeared with his manhattan.

Your drink, sir, he said. And are you two ready to order?

No, I’m sorry, Tom said, his smile back to megawatt. We spent that entire time gabbing, but we are going to take a real look now and we will absolutely be ready when you return.

What he said, Anika said, nodding her head emphatically.

Please, the waiter said, take your time. When he walked away, they picked up their menus, skimming studiously.

Really, Anika was already picturing her shower and her bed, but she was hungry, too, so she was determined to put one foot in front of the other, and tried to find something she felt like eating. She could always eat a steak and they had a filet mignon that wasn’t too pricey. Fries were always easy, too.

What are you thinking? Tom asked. The filet mignon?

Exactly, she said. How’d you know?

You look like a woman who likes red meat, but you don’t seem particularly hungry, so you’d probably want something small.

Aren’t you a regular detective?

Call me Batman, he said, doing an entirely awful impression of Christian Bale’s garbled Bruce Wayne.

More like Superman, Anika said, looking him over. Boy Scout, not Dark Knight.

Ouch, Tom said, drinking his whiskey through a grimace.

"Do you really see yourself as a gloomy man who can’t manage effective engagement with therapy despite