The next morning, her heart and body took a shower, bought a new, funky wardrobe, and picked up her new car.

First Kiss

Amy parked her new Smart car right in front of the Portland Art Museum, marveling over how it could fit anywhere.  It was bright yellow and cute to boot.  She loved how it complimented her new Tardis-blue Converse high-top sneakers.  She had also followed Isabel’s gypsy advice and purchased a dozen do-rags to wear while at work.  She felt they gave her flair.

Amy hurried up the museum steps, her mind blank, her heart pounding, her body tingly. She was so deliriously happy at the prospect of spending the afternoon with Jordan that she didn't even feel tired or sleepy; she felt exhilarated.

She was barely inside the lobby when Jordan appeared in front of her.  She was wearing a pair of baggy plaid shorts (she had shaved legs, thank God) and a plain white T-shirt.  She had on sandals and her toenails were painted red.  She was adorable.

"I hope I'm not late," Amy said for want of anything more original to say.

"C'mon," Jordan said, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the escalator.

"What's the rush?"

"No rush.  I just want you to see what I found."

Jordan pulled her up the escalator, taking the steps two at a time, and down the wide hallway.  She pulled Amy into a room and stepped directly in front of her.  "Close your eyes.”

"We're in a museum," Amy said, "I thought the whole idea was to see things."

"You will, you will, trust me.  Close your eyes."

Amy did as told.  Jordan took her hands and slowly walked her forward.  Then Jordan’s hands were on Amy's shoulders and pressing gently down.  She whispered, "Sit."

Amy sat.  She felt Jordan sit beside her.

"Okay, now you can open your eyes.”

Amy opened her eyes.  She saw a large painting, covering most of the wall.  It was whirls upon swirls of bright, thick paint.  Bold strokes of every color imaginable.  A mass of writhing, curving, serpentine vividness.

"What do you see?" Jordan asked.

Amy looked at Jordan.  "Is this a trick question?"

Jordan shook her head.  "No, not at all.  I'm just wondering what you see."

Amy looked back at the painting.  She tilted her head to the right.  "I don't know.  It's interesting in a messy kind of way."

"Keep looking."

She looked at Jordan.  Jordan was clearly enraptured with the painting.

Amy looked at it again, determined to see something.  She tilted her head to the left.  She still couldn't discern any shapes, any type of anything.  She thought it looked like a colorful tornado.  Or maybe a bunch of different paints being flushed down a toilet.  Or a rainbow caught in a whirlpool.

She looked back at Jordan and studied her profile as she gazed at the painting.  Amy asked, "What do you see?"

Jordan took her time answering, "Ecstasy.  Surprise.  Gratitude.  Joy.  Elation. Happiness."

"All that?"

"And more.  So much more."

"Hunh," Amy said.  Clearly she wasn't up to snuff on modern art.  She looked back to the painting and tried to see what Jordan had described.  "But those are feelings."

"True."

"So, you're telling me that you're seeing emotions when you look at this painting?" Amy asked.

Jordan looked at Amy and smiled.  "That's what art does.  It shows you emotions."

“Oh.”

"Close your eyes again," Jordan said.

Amy closed her eyes, wondering where Jordan was going to take her this time.  But instead of taking her by the hand, Jordan kissed her.

Amy savored the feel of Jordan's lips on hers – the tingling, ecstatic, joyful sensation of a simple kiss.

"You can open your eyes now," Jordan said.

Amy did.  She followed Jordan's gaze back to the painting.  And this time, the colors swelled to life.  They danced and twirled across the canvas.  And she felt it.  The feeling was tiny at first, no more than a pinprick.  It centered in her chest then grew larger and larger.  It was warm.  Was she glowing?  She felt as if she were lit from the inside like one of those paper Chinese lanterns.

Amy didn’t know how to describe it.  She had no words for this feeling.  It was more.  More.  So much more than a kiss.

“Maybe I do see a little something,” Amy whispered with her eyes still glued to the painting.


Car, Duct Tape, Art

 

Jordan and Amy stood on the museum steps, each wanting to spend more time with the other, each unwilling to let the afternoon go.

Amy said, "I can't believe I've never visited here before."

"I come here all the time.  At least once a week.  I find it very inspiring.  Especially the children's art.  They have such freedom.” Jordan led the way down the steps and to the bicycle rack where she had locked up her bike.

Amy said, "So, when you're painting, which comes first, the color or the emotion behind it?"

"It's hard to explain.  Colors can make me feel, but feelings make me see colors.  It's a matter of translating the feeling into color and onto the canvas. You've heard of the expression 'seeing red?'"

"Sure, when somebody's angry," Amy said.

Suddenly, Jordan's face turned a bright crimson.  She clenched her fists and spun in a circle, punching the air, stomping her feet, and saying, "Damndamndamn!  I can't believe it!"

Amy laughed at Jordan's antics.  "I know what anger looks like," she said.  "You don't have to show me."

"I'm not showing you.  I am angry!" Jordan said.  "Look!" She pointed at her lime green Trek bicycle.  Both tires were flat.

"Oh my God," Amy gasped.  She moved in for a closer look.  "The tires have been slashed.  Who would've done such a thing?"

"I have a good idea." Jordan fumed and paced away from the bike.  Petronella had obviously followed her again.  When she saw her kissing Amy, she'd taken out her revenge on the bike.

 Jordan wiped her hand over her face, took a shaky breath and collected herself.  "Sorry I lost it like that."  Now, she was embarrassed.  She didn’t want Amy to think she needed anger management classes, but this clandestine vandalism was getting old.  Petronella had demolished her car, now her bike.  What was next?  She’d be reduced to roller blades?

"I'll give you a ride home," Amy said.

"Okay," Jordan said.  “Thank you.”

Jordan carried the bike, following Amy to her car.  Jordan scrunched her face up when she stared at the car.  “This is it?”

“Yes.”

“I like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter.  She walked around the car.  “It’s adorable.”

“It doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”

“Oh, that’s all right.  We’ll just duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.

“Really?”

“Sure.  I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”

“But I don’t have any duct tape,” Amy said.

“I do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that hung behind her bicycle seat.

“Wow,” Amy said.  “Maybe I should buy stock in duct tape.”

In a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car.  Amy backed away from the car and studied it.  “It looks like art.  Like some kind of modern art sculpture.”

“It really does, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

A Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture.  Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car.  “Amazing,” one man said.  “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between humans and their various modes of transportation.”

Amy giggled.

Jordan shrugged.  “You can turn anything into art.”

Soon, there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car.  Cameras flashed, people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like social commentary and melding of reality and art.  A pencil-thin woman wearing glasses emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped, turned, and flashed off several photos of the car and bike.  Then she pulled a steno pad out of her purse and called out, “Who is the artist?  Does anybody know the artist?”

Jordan stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy.  “She is the artist.”

Amy playfully slugged Jordan’s arm.  Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”

The woman hurried over to Amy.  “How wonderful to meet you.  Do you mind giving me an interview?  I write for The Oregonian.  I would love to feature you in our paper as an up-and-coming artist.  What’s your name?”

The crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.

Amy eyes widened.  She looked to Jordan for help.   Jordan stepped up to the plate and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy.  You know artists and their peculiarities.  Her name is Amy Stewart.  This installation piece is entitled First Kiss.

“What an unusual title,” the reporter said.  “Is there a meaning behind it?”

Jordan raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade.  Amy accepted the dare and spoke up, “It’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car, right?  A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car.  And you have a bike.  A wounded bike.  Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport… again.  Until it meets the car.  Then through the power of duct tape it is carried by the car.  So, it’s like kindred spirits.  Meeting.”

“Huh,” the reporter said.  She turned and studied the car and bike for a moment.  She popped off another couple of pictures with her camera.  Finally, she said, “I get it.  It’s like they’re kissing, right?”

When she turned back around, Jordan and Amy were kissing.  She got a picture of that, too.


Aunt Jemima

“You look like a sexy Aunt Jemima,” Chad said, standing in Amy’s office doorway.

Amy had been hoping her do-rag would turn him off.  Instead, here he was remarking on it.  Not only remarking on it but flirting with it.  “It’s the new me,” she said.

This morning, Amy had chosen a black do-rag bandana with a yellow day-glow Ms. Pac-Man on it.  She felt it embraced her burgeoning sense of feminism.

“I heard rumors about your new wardrobe.”  Chad came around the desk and peeked under it.  “They are Dr. Who shoes.”

Amy whacked him in the head as she opened the desk drawer.

“Ouch!”  He rubbed his forehead that now had the imprint of a tiny keyhole.  “Is this still about the cheese?”

“Cheese?” Amy said.  She had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know the other night when you were throwing cheese and crackers around.”

“Oh that.  No, I just don’t like you looking under my desk uninvited.”

Amy got up abruptly and he quickly stepped back.  She almost laughed.  He actually looked intimidated by her.  This was new.  Maybe a brand new pair of shoes did improve one’s self esteem.  She might need a few more pairs.  “I have rounds to do,” she said, “I assume you have the same.”

“I’ve been off for an hour.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I was hoping to see you.”

She crinkled her brow.  Hadn’t she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to have anything to do with him?  “Why?”

Chad unrolled The Oregonian newspaper and held it up.  It was folded over to the Art section.  “Can I have your autograph?”

Amy zoomed in on the paper.  There was a photo of Amy’s car with the bike duct taped to the top.  The caption underneath read:  Emerging Artist, Amy Stewart, Exhibits One of the Many Uses of Duct Tape.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Chad said.

“It was a joke,” Amy said.  “It got a little out of hand.”

“I’ll say,” he said.  “You have to make them retract this.  You’re a doctor.  You can’t have things like this tainting your reputation.”

Amy wrinkled her nose at him.  “Are you being serious?”

“You can blame it on that woman.  She made you do it,” Chad went on.

Amy was set to spew bile and hate all over his perfect cleft when her pager went off.  She said huffily, “I gotta go.”  She snatched the newspaper out of his hands and strode out the door with her new tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum.  As she walked down the hallway, she opened the paper.  She squeaked to a sudden stop.  “Oh my God.”  Below the photo of her car was another photo. This one was of Jordan and Amy kissing.

She had just come out to the entire world.  “What’s my mother going to say?” she said aloud.