Chapter 8

8

ELLIE

E llie stares at the waterfall, mad to have decided to continue it either way. The bubbling water springs down, cascading into the lake below. The hills bend over the phenomenon in a manner she finds mocking. As if the hills were bent over her, looking straight into the pits of her artistic soul, looking for substance. She feels empty, bendable like a straw of grass exposed to barely any wind. How come it takes so little for her delicate touch to turn into something violent?

She wipes her hands clean and decides to order dinner in. Afternoon has turned to evening, and she can see the windows of nearby apartments light up. She has always liked to spy on people through their windows, observing their kitchens or living rooms—the scenes of their rituals. Little figures dancing around, preparing dinner or taking their shoes off, coming home from work. As a student, she painted a project meant to imagine her as a little figure stared at from someone else's perspective. Back then she lived in a little, square studio apartment, and the series of four paintings included the four corners of her room; Ellie cooking soup on her little portable gas stove, Ellie reading a book on her miniature bed, Ellie putting on her socks next to the pile of clothing substituting a wardrobe, and Ellie at her canvas, despairing over some project.

She smiles, thinking it over, a little upset that she has no idea where the paintings went. The delivery man rings the doorbell with urgency, stirring her out of the river of thoughts.

"Thank you, have a good evening," she says at the door, impatient to eat.

The clouds of steam from the noodles explode in her face, the carton box almost burning her hands. She sits down on the floor, far away from any painting, afraid to grease or stain something of value. The thick strings of noodles slide around her mouth, delicious.

Suddenly, her phone rings. She curses herself for the lack of napkins, having already used the ones provided, and grabs the phone awkwardly, knowing that an unknown number could mean something particularly important.

"Yes?" she utters, right after swallowing.

"Is this Ellie Matthews?" a low-pitched, male voice inquires.

"Yes, speaking."

"This is George Kirsch calling, from the Kirsch Gallery of Art, I had the honor to see your recent exhibition, and decided to reach out with an, I hope, interesting offer."

Ellie sits completely still. She knows the Kirsch Gallery, now managed and curated by Samuel Kirsch's son, George.

"Of course, I'm listening," she assures, intrigued.

"I want to suggest to you a collaborative project that my gallery would host with pleasure," he continues, "I propose a meeting tomorrow, if your availability would allow?"

Having settled the hour, they hang up. Ellie looks at the cooled down noodles with disbelief, giddy from excitement. She hopes that a new project will give her some new sense of direction, besides the obvious growth of her recognition. She paces around the studio, impatient for the following days, the mist of late evening darkness seeps into the room, prompting her to leave for home.

–

Next morning, she doesn't hesitate for even a second to firmly step out of the bed. The meeting is supposed to take place at 11am, and she cannot even think of being late, a worry she likes to exaggerate, for she rarely ever is late, even a few minutes. The weather outside seems fresh and encouraging, finally allowing her to wear a dress. Paired with a vintage blazer, she looks feminine but powerfully professional. Her heavy gold jewelry ornaments her ears and neck, but her fingers are left free and agile. She's not in the mood for rings.

For breakfast, she prepares only a light sandwich with cottage cheese and tomatoes, feeling too nervous to eat anything too heavy. Little crystals of salt catch the morning light beautifully, sparkling in her eyes.

On the way, she listens to some upbeat jazz music from a spring playlist she undug from piles of others for this occasion. The road is jammed per usual, but she truly has pools of time ahead of her, the clock displaying the blissful hour, 10:20.

–

She pushes the office door open and freezes in a trembling surprise.

"Good morning, Ms Matthews," Kirsch says, inviting her to sit.

Opposite him sits Tatiana Khan. Hearing the surname, Tatiana hurriedly turns around, her shimmering copper red braid splendidly flowing with the motion.

"Hi, Ellie," she says, seemingly surprised as well. "How are you doing?"

Ellie sits down, uncertain, remembering Tatiana crying out Ellie's name as she came.

"Hi, Tatiana," she says at last. She remains cool on the surface.

George Kirsch nods, content, apparently not expecting the two to know each other.

"Ah, I see that you two have already been introduced. Splendid," he says, before taking a sip from his cup. "The gallery has been observing the work of both of you. We, I especially, consider the two of you visionary artists of our age. Many pointed out the similarities and the seeming sync in which your art flows, which prompted me to offer an exhibition combining your art. You would work together on whatever theme you'd like, the only condition being that you create it together. I can see such a collaboration attracting much attention." He smiles, proud of the idea. "What would you say? How much time do you need to think?" he asks, looking from one to another.

No. Absolutely not. I'm not working with her. I hate her.

Ellie stirs on her seat. She was not expecting any of this to go the way it is going, but even though her emotions resemble a thunderstorm, her mind seems clear on the subject. Such an opportunity is certainly to be taken, no matter her personal feelings regarding Tatiana Khan. She swore to make her career as grand as possible, and she wasn't going to step down now. She turns to regard Tatiana's reaction.

Tatiana is knitting her brows together, a habit Ellie noted as frequent on her striking face. Her wide set brown eyes are enchanting. Ellie can't help but note.

"I'm not so sure, our processes of creation seem to be very different…" she says carefully.

Ellie's face heats up, determined not to lose the opportunity.

"Tatiana, we can make this work. I'm certain of it," she says, as calmly as possible, not to seem desperate. Ellie knew she needed to take control of this. It was an excellent opportunity for both of them.

George Kirsch looks at his watch and back up at the artists.

"I suggest you talk it through and get back to me once you reach a consensus." He looks at Ellie, "Counting on you, Ms Matthews."

Getting out of the office, Ellie is upset to be reduced to the desperate one, having to convince Tatiana to participate. She would prefer to complete the project on her own, but the choice isn't theirs, and she's used to building with what she's got.

Nearing the exit of the gallery, Tatiana unexpectedly turns to Ellie.

"To put it simply, because I want to be honest with you," Tatiana begins, "the prospect of working with you makes me nervous. You seem to hold very different opinions, and you have made your distaste for my art clear, and that would not put me in the right mindset to express myself." She exhales, visibly having thought these words through before.

Ellie stops, quite charmed by her openness.

"I get it. I understand," she responds. Looking into Tatiana's dark brown eyes makes her remember their hot and dirty fucking, causing something between her legs to stir. "But this is a huge opportunity for both of us. I'm sure we can find a way to collaborate, we can even agree on the vision and work entirely separately. But I need this, really. Tatiana, I do," she finishes.

Like you needed my hand inside of you.

"Let's get lunch," Tatiana suggests and Ellie admires the sway of the younger woman's hips. Tatiana is hot, all seductive curves and flame red messy hair and full sensual lips and Ellie hadn't allowed herself to openly think that before.

I allowed myself to fuck her, though. Didn't I?

Ellie agrees, and they head towards the disgustingly business-filled area of the city. Nothing green soothes their eyes, every inch of the ground is bathed by concrete. The sky stands shadowed by the overwhelming skyscrapers, and the sandwich or poke bowl shops seem completely soulless.

"Let's go to the older area?" Ellie offers.

They make their way, inhaling the springtime lightness of air, heading towards the little bustling area nearby. Once there, they're welcomed by the delicious scents of freshly cooked food, steam flowing out of the tiny, crowded kitchens.

"What are you in the mood for?" Tatiana asks, spreading her arms wide.

She smiles generously, and Ellie knows that it's partially because she has the upper hand in the conversation. A foolish little play , she thinks, considering what her squeezed-by-stress stomach would like.

"Dumplings?" she suggests, pointing to a Chinese stand with some three or four chairs in front.

"Let's go," agrees Tatiana, light-footed and seemingly excited.

They sit down, holding their orders' little printed numbers. Tatiana's number is seven.

"Look, mine is lucky," she says with a grin.

Ellie has no idea why Tatiana seems to overflow with joy. Her every move seems to possess some secret to happiness, entirely perplexing, she thinks, her own smile going unnoticed.

"I have never heard of seven being lucky," she says as she shakes her head. Her family wasn't particularly superstitious, failing to pass on many such common concepts.

"At least in Russia, it's very lucky." Tatiana shrugs.

And there it is, her order comes out of the kitchen first. Ellie looks down on her "unlucky" number six, still in the belly of the loud and hot kitchen.

"Does that mean," she begins, the scent of dumplings finally awakening her hunger, "I unluckily will lose the exhibition?" She looks up from the plate, to face Tatiana.

Tatiana doesn't wait, but packs her mouth full of chicken dumplings, chewing blissfully. She puts one finger in the air, telling Ellie to wait. In the meantime, they hear a cook shout, " Number six!" and Ellie gets up to get her food.

When she's back, Tatiana's plate lies half-empty.

"No, Ellie. Maybe it's good to do something uncomfortable," she admits, picking up another dumpling. "I'll do the exhibition with you."

Tatiana smiles, and her sensual lips glisten in the warm sun. Ellie cannot keep her eyes away, as if a star pulled towards another by the enduring strength of gravity. She craves to feel these lips against hers once more, remembering all too vividly the sensations of that evening. Giving in to the rush of relief, Ellie bends over the little wooden table and clashes her lips with Tatiana's.

When she pulls away, both women look at each other with feelings mixed across their faces.

"I don't know…" begins Tatiana, but soon the words she meant to say seem to get stuck in her throat.

Ellie's heart beats incessantly fast when she realizes how easily she caved in to the feeling. "I'm sorry, if you didn't want to—" she begins saying, but doesn't finish, finding her lips licked by Tatiana's tongue, invitingly.

"Okay, we shouldn't do this here, though, this is obscene," she laughs, relieved.

They finish their lunch in peace, having resolved at least some aspects of their troubles. Ellie feels a wave of joy, thinking about working on the project. She suspiciously notices that the joy seems to come from the perspective of working with Tatiana as well, but she keeps that feeling to herself.

"So… Do we kiss, now, casually?" she asks Tatiana, wanting some form of clarification.

"Apparently," the other laughs it off, clearly shying away from some conversation.

Ellie decides to let it go for the moment.

"Should we call Kirsch?" she asks, hoping to settle the matter entirely.

"Go ahead," Tatiana says, wiping her lips clean. "I have to keep going." She gets up. "Do you even have my number?" She smiles.

"I… Well, if it's the same one?—"

"No, it's not the same one as the one that'll take you to my manager," she laughs, picking up the napkin and scribbling on it. "There you go, see you later!" She waves goodbye and is gone, soaked into the crowd.

Ellie sits for a while, looking at her two leftover dumplings and the slightly greased napkin with Tatiana's number on it.

She sighs and picks up her phone to call the curator.