American River Review 2022 - copy - Flipbook - Page 22
I remember you
By Angie Velarde
I remember you. You wore a black
dress that was slightly too short,
and black patent leather high heels
that were slightly too high. Your
hair was brown, but when the sun
dipped low in the sky, it burned a
deep shade of red. It was a Thursday
evening in the late Spring and we
hadn’t expected to meet. But we did.
We took a walk, and you kept looking at me – and you looked so hard
and for so long, that you didn’t see
that crack in the pavement. I tried
not to laugh when you tripped. I’m
sure you don’t believe me, but I really tried my best. You didn’t make
it easy. Your caramel skin flushed
a deep red, like your hair. Your
eyes widened with embarrassment,
but you laughed too. And it wasn’t
forced or polite, it was a real laugh
– of belly-heaves and snorting and
roaring. So, you see, how could I
have resisted?
As we walked, I told you I painted a
little, and you sheepishly admitted
that you were an artist. You offered
me a ticket to a gallery reception for
the following night, which I happily
accepted and, the next night, attended. Your paintings were strung
up near the back and you were
selling them for no more than a few
hundred dollars. “Why so little?” I
said, and I told you that I would’ve
gladly paid more. Perhaps you
thought I was just being kind, but I
wasn’t. I was genuinely impressed
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by you. To be honest, it made me a
little jealous. Did I hide it well?
You told me of your passion for
paint and color and portraiture. I
asked if you wanted to be the next
(this artist), or (that artist) – though
hard as I try, I can’t remember who
I said now – and the area between
your eyes creased as you frowned.
“No,” you said. “I don’t want to be
the next anything. I want to be
myself.”
We went out for dinner a few nights
later. We ate, and drank too much
wine, and I heard that hearty laugh
again. We shared our dreams for
the future. You revealed to me that
you had been accepted to a prestigious program in Los Angeles in
the fall, and would be moving away.
Even though we barely knew one
another, I’ll confess – it made me
sad. Los Angeles was so far, and you
were so lovely.
We spent three whole months
together before it was time to say
goodbye. You asked me one last
time to go with you, and I could
see you were disappointed when I
said, “I can’t.” I was afraid – but you
know that. No matter how much I
may have wanted to, I could have
never been that free; not like you.
Then again, that was always the difference between us – I was a person
with a paintbrush, and you were an
artist.