The next night, Lauren and Nikki met for a quick drink before retreating to her 1940s Spanish Beachwood Canyon house, nestled below the Hollywood sign. The living room was an eclectic, bohemian space filled with an abundance of paintings, art books, and ceramics.
Lauren scanned the room, pausing at an abstract ceramic that was god-awful. In fact, he thought all of the art was god-awful, but especially the ceramics. He lifted a small sculpture, tilting his head as if searching for a better perspective, but found none.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“I made them. That’s what I do.”
“Other than being a wife?”
She ignored that question, “Alexa, play The Smiths.”
“No one’s home?” he asked.
Lauren put the pottery down and watched her body as she moved to the bar. She grabbed an already opened bottle of wine, and placed the bottle between her legs, and pulled the cork out aggressively.
“Cab?” she asked.
“Tequila?”
“I do not.”
“Cab it is,” Lauren confirmed and approached her.
He noticed a picture of her and her husband, “Who took this?”
“Better you don’t look at that.”
He kissed her neck, cheek, and ear, and she rolled her head as she poured the wine. He buried his head in her hair that swept across his face. Some of the wine made it into the glass, some didn’t. She set down the bottle before she spilled it all. Getting close, he put his hands around her to feel her skin, and they opened their clothing. She looked up, and he looked down. Their fingers intertwined, squeezing ever so tightly.
Later, they stood in the kitchen drinking more wine.
“So you made all of this art?” Lauren asked.
“Most of it. You seem surprised.”
“I’m an artist too.”
“I think you said you were a graphic artist. Honey, I hate to burst your bubble lbut that’s not art,” Nikki insisted.
“I have four years of art school debt to prove otherwise.”
“You’re giving your client what they want. You may be holding the pencil but they’re moving the paper.”
“With my art, talent is a requirement,” he responded jokingly but firmly.
“Did you love her?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Who? The mother of your child, who.”
“I thought I did. When you’re young you don’t really know the difference.”
“You.. didn’t know the difference,” she clarified, “Maybe we should talk less.”
Lauren followed her to a bedroom, and they shut the door.