The Prince and His Pert Little Palace

A flickering neon sign reading “A-R-T” on a dark Culver City street was the only indication that Arcturus Gallery was open. Steep concrete steps led to a basement-level space. He nearly slipped on a rain-slicked slab—it never rains in LA—before landing in a small puddle in front of a smudged glass door.

Cursing as damp seeped through thin socks, he pushed through the portal. Bells jangled announcing his entry into the art gallery, as though it was a convenience store. It was, indeed, his practical desire to step out of the now pelting rain that led to this anomalous excursion.

He shook water droplets off his hair and jacket, loosened his tie and shivered. The basement gallery was dry, but cold.

A wooden sandwich board advertised “Art Exhibit - Closing Night.” Below it, a name was illegibly scrawled in rain washed chalk. A crumb-laden table with charcuterie remnants and plastic cups sat next to a half-empty bottle of sparkling wine, its bubbles long departed. A disheveled man—The curator?—looked up for an instant, muttered a welcome, then continued swiping his phone.

Large canvases, spotlighted for viewing were scattered across the gallery’s indigo walls. A half dozen people milled about—Fellow refugees from the rain? In the far corner a woman wearing a sari stood before a painting.

He loved off-the-beaten-path galleries like this one. Arthouse cinema and provocative one-man/woman plays. Artisanal street food and dusty indie bookshops. Folk singers crooning open mic sets in gritty bars. The Arcturus offered an ideal distraction to wait out the rain until he could walk five long blocks to where his car was parked. He took a deep breath of stale air—a refreshing change from the sterile, fluorescent-lit set where he’d spent most of his day.

The canvases were a riot of form and flow. Clean, confident narrow strokes overlapped popartstyle comic book figures. Women, angelic and mythological, were perched next to and atop one another, skin tinted various hues of brown. They were draped in textured curtain dresses of puce, jade, and azure, and depicted alongside bare-chested men, fingers on throats and arms, eyes locked in determined gazes.

The canvases oozed inspiration, skill, and... something else. Self-assurance. He moved from one to the other, sidestepping murmured conversations, training his eyes on each work for a requisite few minutes.

The saried woman was standing in the same spot. Stock-still, staring at the same painting in the same corner. He glanced perfunctorily at her profile and sidled up to share her appreciative gaze. She was striking. Eyes trained on brush strokes like a hawk, peering through cat-eye glasses. He realized he had zoomed past the paintings far too quickly.

On impulse he asked, “What do you think she’s saying to him?”

She didn’t move. Had she heard him?

“I don’t know.” Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure she’d spoken. Her eyes remained fixed on the painting. Seconds ticked by.

“You tell me,” she said, in a louder tone, and turned to face him. Her black hair was secured in a substantial bun at the base of her neck. Wisps escaped down her back and danced around her hairline. Dark eyes were hollow. Red spectacles had slid down her nose. Mouth was pursed, chin tilted up. There was no smile lurking behind the stern façade.

He swallowed. “Well, I think, um...” he started, turning to the canvas to glean meaning, “that she is either about to kick him... or kiss him.” He blushed and met her eyes.

The woman squinted at him and cocked her head. She pushed her glasses up her nose.

“You disagree?” he asked.

They studied the painting some more. A tall female figure with gold skin towered over a sallow-skinned, dark haired man. The dominant woman held the man’s hair in a tight grip and surveyed him with intent—and a whiff of boredom. Her other hand rested on his lower abdomen, fingers pointed down. A provocative placement. The canvas, at least five feet tall, brought the two figures to life.

“I think,” started the sari-clad woman, “there is power at play.”

She had an accent he couldn’t place—a colonial lilt edging a South Asian center, perhaps?

“Power?” he asked, feeling out of his depth.

A small smile erupted at the edge of her mouth. “Kick or kiss? Who can say?”

“I think it’s quite seductive.” He was flirting.

“Power is seductive,” she agreed, nodding.

“Are they humans? Or angels? Maybe demons?” he asked.

“Are you asking me about the cultural context of this painting?”

She must be a professor. Or some sort of academic. She was testing him. Her sari was made from a fine weave, its sheen reflecting the dim lighting. Silk, and fraying at the edges.

“I’m just wondering out loud,” he answered, slightly unnerved. “I couldn’t tell the artist’s name but I think these figures appear maybe, mythological? Indian? Perhaps Hindi?”

“You couldn’t tell the artist’s name?” she asked, turning back to him, eyes squinting more narrowly now.

“The rain washed away the lettering,” he began.

“...what does the artist’s name have to do with their art?” she interrogated.

“I just thought, if it was an Indian name...”

“... then it would have to be Hindi mythology?” she finished.

A giggle escaped his lips. Nerves. “Did I say Hindi?” he asked. “I meant to say Hindu.” He straightened his face, chastened.

She shook her head in disgust. “So, an Indian artist would necessarily make art drawn from their heritage. Is that what you’re saying.”

“Well, if it was a non-Indian artist, that would be... well, it would be...” What was the phrase? He had just read an article in The Guardian. His cheeks reddened.

“Are you the cultural appropriation police?” she asked, snark edging her tone.

Cultural appropriation. That was it. He took a breath, grounded himself, ready to spar. Outside, the rain had stopped drumming. “Wouldn’t it be inappropriate for a non-Indian artist to paint Hindu mythological art?”

“It could be inappropriate,” she intoned in perfect, accented English. “But the flip side is that Indian artists aren’t taken seriously unless they lean in to their roots. That’s what society wants, what it expects people from the subcontinent to do.”

“Is that really true? You don’t think there are Indian artists doing art that’s not overtly Indian?”

“What is art that’s not overtly Indian?” she countered, eyes flashing. “You mean white art?” Her tongue lashed around the word “white.” She spat it out like venom.

He grew uncomfortable in his skin—his white skin. “I didn’t mean...”

“And it’s the same for women, no?” she continued, talking over him. “Women artists rarely paint only men. But men often paint only women. Men love painting women, worshipping their forms, the curves of their bodies, their seductive hair and eyes.”

Her chest heaved and he flushed, unable to stop himself from noticing the curve of her body, the hair cascading down her back, now freed from its binding as her fevered rant accelerated.

“Women are supposed to be flattered by the attention,” she added.

“I agree,” he said, placating her. “I don’t think it’s fair for minorities to have to ...”

“Minorities?” she echoed, incredulous.

Oops. He’d done it again.

“Women are a majority. There are three or four times as many Indians as Americans in the world. When did we become a minority?” She paused, blinking expectantly.

“I meant,” he began slowly, “minority in the sense of who is allowed to be in positions of power. In this country...”

“This country? You mean your country?”

“I meant in this country that you and I are inhabiting right now.” He was losing patience. “In this country women and people of color are minoritized.”

“Minoritized” was a good word. He had heard a recent NPR interview with a Black author discussing how systemic racism made minorities of people of color and women. He knew a thing or two.

She bristled. “And who is doing the minoritizing?” she asked, emphasizing the word in a mocking tone.

“Men like me.” He stared deadpan into her eyes. “White men like me,” he added, in case there was any doubt.

It took the wind out of her gusty sails. She relaxed her shoulders and turned back to the painting, reaching her hands behind her neck to loosen the bindings of her thick hair and reweave it into a bun. A patch of damp stained the armpit of her snug bodice under the sari. He could smell her sweat—a clean scent, a perspiration of agitation, not of the perpetually unwashed. He gritted his teeth, ashamed at how easily his thoughts had veered toward stereotypes. He had just finished an antiracist training at the network.

“I’m Matt,” he said, holding out a conciliatory hand.

“Matthew Fernández,” she said, unsmiling. She had recognized him.

She shook his hand with a powerful grip that startled him and didn’t offer her own name in return. He nodded, smiled politely, and pulled his hand back into his pocket. “Have a good rest of your day,” he said, and walked toward the door.

On his way out he paused, driven by a sudden instinct. “I’d like to buy that painting,” he murmured to the bored curator, pointing at the bad-tempered Indian woman who had turned back toward the canvas. He pulled out a credit card.

* * *

The rain clouds had vanished overnight and the sun blazed overhead. She pressed the intercom, surveying salmon hued bougainvillea artfully draped across the teal façade of a small villa that was tucked in between high-end townhomes by the water’s edge. An iron gate separated her from the terracotta-roofed Malibu home of Matthew Fernández.

“Yes?” asked a deep voice, crackling through the speaker. It was him. She had expected—hoped—a housekeeper might answer. Her friends had swooned when she shared in a text chain that morning that the star of Universal Mysteries had dropped in on closing night and bought one of her paintings. The young science show host was popular among her artsy set, as much for his looks as his brains.

“I have my painting. Erm... your painting,” she said, into the intercom.

There was a long pause.

“The one you bought last night at the Arcturus,” she added, panic coursing through her. Even after the gallery’s hefty commission, the sale would sustain her for several months. She hadn’t sold anything for the entire month her works were on display.

“Come on in,” said the voice. The fence clicked open and she backed in through it, heaving the unwieldy paper-wrapped painting with both hands. By the time she reached the front door, she was perspiring in the afternoon heat.

He stood in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, wet strands of brown hair dampening his shoulders as though he’d just showered. A broad smile topped by a deep frown marked his face—the faux confusion of realization. “You!” he said, accusatorily, and laughed.

“Me,” she admitted, resting the edge of the wrapped canvas against her foot. She had opted for sneakers, and a cotton sundress sewn from a vintage sari.

He reached sturdy arms to help but she brushed him off. “Just tell me where you want it,” she said, hoisting up the heavy piece.

“Oh... here, follow me,” he said, walking into the villa through a plaster arched hallway. The Spanish style villa was stunning. Old. Restored. Rich. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to go back and pick it up this morning,” he called behind him.

She followed, marveling at the stucco walls adorned with artifacts. A collection of antique ouds. A Persian silk tapestry. Framed Japanese Manga—old originals by the looks of them. A maximalist smorgasbord.

He was a hot science nerd—she had expected a pinball machine. Perhaps a collection of first-edition Carl Sagan books. Maybe an original Star Wars movie poster or collectible action figures.

A black and white painted checkerboard floor led to a breathtaking view of the ocean. Foaming waters roared back and forth, so close to the house, she sucked her breath in wonder. Floor to ceiling windows barely kept the churning at bay. This is how wealth lives.

“This way,” he said, startling her. He was standing in the doorway of an adjoining room. She followed through to a spacious bedroom. More window. More view. More ocean, wild and savage.

A carved mahogany four-poster bed took up most of the space. It wasn’t a large house. But in Malibu and perched on the water’s edge, the small villa was likely worth the same as a San Marino mansion. He lived alone by the looks of it.

“I thought this would be the perfect spot for it,” he said, waving at a blank space on a wall flanking the bed. “I need something nice to look at while I fall asleep.”

He was being cheeky. Revenge for the previous night’s rage she had loosed upon him. And for her refusal of his help in carrying the painting.

“You didn’t tell me you were the artist,” he added.

Ah yes. Revenge also for keeping her identity from him. She lifted the canvas, heaved it to the spot, breath sharp with effort, and gently rested it against the wall. Slitting open the paper, she revealed the painting they had argued about the night before. His painting, now.

She stepped back to meet his eyes. “Revati,” she said, extending her hand. “Revati Talwalkar.” She pronounced it like her parents did. Rave-tee Tahl-vahl-kurr.

The “ts” were soft, the “ls” rolled using her tongue against the roof of her mouth and thrown to the front. Sounds that did not exist in English. She could have used the Americanized pronunciation she resorted to at Starbucks cafes or tech support phone calls. But she was feeling cheeky too.

Matt’s expression remained flat but his eyes visibly panicked. “Rave... um...”

“Rave-tee,” she repeated, unrepentant.

“Nice to meet you, Revati,” he said, conquering her name and shaking her hand. His palm was large and very warm.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you buy it?”

“Are you unhappy I did?”

“Would you have bought it had you known I was the artist?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“I... I don’t know,” he said. At least he was being honest. “I really liked it. I bought it on a whim. But I’m glad I...”

“On a whim?” she interrupted, arching her eyebrows. “Must be nice to buy expensive things on a whim.” Heat rose in her ears. Her glasses slipped down her nose and she pushed them back up.

“I’m very fortunate,” said Matt. “I love collecting art and I have the ability to support artists. So, I do.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

“So, tell me Revati,” he continued. “What is she saying to him?”

She frowned, confused.

He pointed to the painting.

“Oh.” His easy manner was disarming. She wanted to exit the conversation—and the house. To drive down the winding bends of the Pacific Coast Highway and pull up to an empty stretch of beach, push her toes into sand, and submerge herself.

“It’s art,” she said, simply. “She’s saying whatever you want her to say.” She didn’t want to engage him. Matthew Fernández was a white man, whether his name sounded like it or not.

“But you’re the artist,” he persisted. “I don’t often get to meet the makers of the works I purchase. It’s...  a privilege.”

He was flattering her. And flirting. She acquiesced. “Picture this image with the roles reversed. A tall man, towering over a prone woman. His hand on her hip, his other hand gripping her hair. His eyes boring into hers. What would he be saying to her?” She paused, allowing his mind to tick.

“I want to ravish you,” said Matt. Her skin prickled.

“Exactly,” she said. “That dynamic is so commonplace, we don’t have trouble interpreting the subtext.”

“So, your art is subversive,” he said, admiringly.

“You could say that,” she said. She shifted her feet, tired from seven long hours at the gallery the previous day, setting up for closing night, aimlessly wandering in and out of the small space for hours, chatting with friends who’d shown up to support her. Then heading home on a long drive from Culver City to her shared three-bedroom apartment in Highland Park.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, eyes widening. “I haven’t offered you anything to drink. Would you like some water? Tea?”

“No, that’s fine.” She was tired and hungry and had no intention of staying. “Can I, um... is it okay if I take a photo of you with the painting?” she asked, feeling foolish. “For the gallery. Their social media...” she trailed off.

“Of course!” He beamed. He ran a hand through his nearly dry hair and stood next to the painting, perfect white teeth displayed within a seductive lopsided smile, so comfortable in his skin. Why had she lied about needing a photo? Bragging rights? To prove to her friends that he had bought her painting, and that she’d been in his house, with him?

She clicked a photo and slipped her phone into her pocket hastily. She would examine it later.

“May I take a photo of you too?” he asked, pulling out his phone. She balked. “I... I don’t look good in photos,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Nonsense,” he dismissed. “You’re stunning!” He gestured toward the painting and clicked as she stood awkward and unsure of what to do with her hands. She wobbled and reached out to regain her balance.

“Whoa!” He grabbed her hand to steady her. “Are you alright? You look... a bit tired.”

Great. She was haggard, sleepless and stressed. “I’m fine, I just... maybe a glass of water...”

“Come,” he commanded, dropping her hand and walking toward the living room. She followed. The sitting room opened into a kitchen lined with hand-painted Spanish tiles. “How about some tea? Tea always helps me. Have a seat.”

“I was up late,” she said in explanation, sitting at a small round dining table. “Closing night is always stressful. And I forgot to eat this morning.”

“Rest for a bit.” He puttered behind a counter, filling a kettle with water.

She relented. He was being nice. “How long have you been a science show host?” she asked.

He poured steaming water into cups. “After my PhD, I was aimless. I felt like it had all been a big mistake.”

PhD. He bandied his doctorate around like it was a gym membership.

“I started a post-doctorate at Caltech but never finished. A friend of mine works in Hollywood and he liked to pick my brain about cosmology and life on other planets, and he thought I had a knack for making complicated physics simple. So, we put together a pilot for a science show—a more contemporary, hipper version of Cosmos. We did it almost as a lark.”

Of course, you did. How easy it is for people like you. “And?” she asked as he set down two cups of steaming green tea and sat next to her. “The rest is history?”

“Sort of.” He pushed a cup toward her. “It took several years before we could convince a studio to back the project. In the meantime, I had no job and was couch surfing friends’ houses.”

“But it worked out eventually.”

“Yes, it did.” He blew on his tea and sipped.

“And now, look at you,” she said, taking her own sip, her eyes sweeping the room and its carefully curated grandeur. “Fancy house. A patron to the arts.” She tried keeping the edge out of her voice but he’d noticed.

“Look, I get it. I’m a white guy. It’s much easier for me to break into Hollywood...”

“Than someone like me,” she finished.

“Well... I suppose so.”

“Fernández?” she asked.

He smiled. It was a question he’d been asked often. “It’s all on my Wikipedia page,” he said.

As if she’d read his Wikipedia page. The nerve. Then again, she had read his Wikipedia page the previous night, sitting in her car before heading upstairs to her apartment, giddy with triumph from selling a painting. Matt’s father was a light-skinned Argentinian expat, his mother, a white woman from Pennsylvania. He was born and raised in Philadelphia—American through and through.

“How long have you been an artist?” he asked.

“I don’t have a Wikipedia page.” Stop it. She forced a smile to break the tension. “My parents pushed me into law. They’re both lawyers, back home in Mumbai. But it wasn’t my thing. I dropped out of my pre-law program in Arizona and moved to LA to become an artist. That was...” She stared at the ceiling, calculating. “Nearly 15 years ago. Got my degree at CalArts. Never got the MFA.” She hadn’t had the money, and by then her parents had practically disowned her for choosing a career in art.

The tea was finally cool enough to drink. She savored its mellow grassiness. “I always wished I’d studied science though.” It was an odd thing to confess. She reddened.

“Oh? Funny, I’d always wished I could have been an artist.” He looked around at his walls in illustration.

“Why didn’t you pursue it? The art world loves people like you.” Oh no. The green tea had relaxed her so much, her filter had slipped—again.

“People like me,” he echoed and cocked his head at her, smiling. “Here I thought you were the one with the advantage—especially in art.”

“Advantage?” Her voice rose. “What are you talking about?”

“You have a culture!” he countered. “Your traditions are rich, your history and background, there’s so much to draw from, so much beauty, so much texture. And, look, I’m sure I’ll get into trouble saying this, but you have much more cache leaning into your roots in the art world than someone like me would.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She set her cup down and stood. It was time to leave.

“Hey, c’mon. Talk to me. Please.” He took her hand and pulled her back toward the chair.

She snatched her hand back and glared at him.

“Look, I don’t get the chance to talk about such things with others,” he continued. “Most of my friends are...well, they’re other white guys like me at the network. And then there’s the fans—all they want to do is take photos and butter me up.”

Her stomach churned thinking of the photo she’d taken of him. “Why is it my job to give you the satisfaction of a conversation?”

His light brown eyes—such pretty eyes—looked hurt and she melted. Be nice. Some of your best friends are white.

“Please, Revati.” His voice cracked. “Stay a little while. I’ll behave, I promise.”

“If you want me to stay, you’ll have to feed me or I’ll faint,” she said. What are you doing? Get out of here.

He smiled broadly and stood up. “Deal!” He bounced into the kitchen and began opening cabinets, and she sat, defeated.

* * *

He had gone to the farmer’s market that morning. They demolished a crusty baguette, a soft ripened cheese, shiny freshly picked blackberries, and a package of cold smoked salmon. Half way through the meal he’d reached for a crisp Pinot Gris he kept in his fridge and poured two glasses.

The sun danced on the edge of the horizon, hovering for a long moment with its head above water. Sharp blinding rays cut across seething waters before the bright globe dipped behind the world, taking its light with it. Revati held her breath, drinking the view and the wine. He switched on a vintage Italian porcelain lamp. It flickered to life, throwing a pale golden glow over the room through its perforated shade.

“I spent a year in Buenos Aires while I was waiting for my show to get picked up, and thought I would get in touch with my father’s roots,” he said, still discussing his journey from aimless physicist to TV star. “But honestly, I just felt like an American trying too hard.”

“Mmm...” She was barely listening, distracted by the house and its trappings.

“Sometimes I think I’m a fraud,” he confessed, shaking her out of her reverie. “My peers have all done serious things—research, tenure-track teaching positions, tech startups. Every time I’m on TV, I wonder if they’re judging me. Pitying me. ‘We always knew that guy wasn’t going to cut it.’”

The wine was getting to her head. She would need to sober up before leaving. She wrested her eyes away from the window and turned to him. “Don’t you see how lucky you are?”

He paused. “Don’t you see how lucky you are?” he countered.

She scoffed. “Yeah, right. I came over here to kiss the ass of my rich benefactor hoping he’d buy more paintings just so I could make rent for another few months. Lucky, lucky me.” Her eyes widened, realizing what she’d just said. Shit, shit. “Sorry, I...”

“If this is you ‘kissing my ass,’ I can’t imagine what you’d be like brushing me off.” He looked amused.

“I don’t know why I said that.” She flushed and pressed a finger into a bread crumb on her plate and absently licked it. “I honestly just came to drop off the painting. I guess, what I was trying to say was, it hasn’t been easy for me. It’s actually been really, really difficult. These paintings, they’re my vision of this upside-down world we live in, where men suck up all the oxygen, leaving the rest of us gasping for air. But do you know how often I’ve been told they’re not Indian enough? If I lean into my heritage, I’m a hack. If I don’t lean in enough, I’m not authentic. Meanwhile, all my white male peers are opening shows at Bergamot Station, selling their milquetoast paint splashes to collectors and galleries. Me, I can’t even get an agent!”

She gulped down the last of her wine and, in spite of her resolve to sober up, poured another glass, watching clear liquid fill the pendulous center.

“Why can’t you get an agent?” He was genuinely confused. “You’re incredible. Your art is amazing. It’s fresh, and yet somehow classical. It’s subversive. It’s everything good art should be.”

She stared at him as though he were simpleminded even though he’d just complimented her. “I’m the artist that everyone is grateful to have in the mix so that they can show themselves to be open-minded. But I’m never the one who gets picked. If I had a dollar for every time my talentless peers were handed opportunities they didn’t deserve, simply because someone from daddy’s country club pulled strings or because mommy worked at a high-end art magazine, I’d be fucking rich.”

“Look, don’t get mad, but...”

“Shut up, shut up,” she declared, pressing her hand onto his mouth. “Save yourself from my wrath and just shut the fuck up before you say something truly dumb.”

He laughed and pulled her hand down, keeping it between his hands, sandwiching her slightly sweaty palm. “I wonder if maybe you have the wrong attitude and if you would just try to think positive...!”

She yanked her hand away. “Ugh! Seriously? You are so bloody out of touch and...and...” The fight leaked out of her and she relaxed. “You’re baiting me, you asshole.” She shook her head, smiling.

He covered his mouth with the back of his own hand to stifle his laughter. “Look, you’re right about this messed up world we live in. I’m so sorry you’re struggling, but I wonder if your paintings would be as powerful and insightful if you’d just succeeded right away? What if their beauty comes from your struggle? I mean, look at Van Gogh. He struggled most of his life, and his art wasn’t recognized until after he died. I bet your male colleagues are talentless because they’re successful, more so than the other way around.”

Anger and unsaid words bubbled up. Who the hell was he to give her advice? She seethed at his smug perceptions. But perhaps...there was a kernel of truth in his words. Was she a better artist because of her struggles?

She threw her head down on her forearms, and, mouth pressed to the table, groaned, “Should I paint my heart out until I can’t take it anymore, and then just off myself, hoping for posthumous fame?”

His mouth fell open. “God no! Don’t even say such a thing. Just be patient, your break will come, I’m sure.”

“Matt, you’re an idealist,” she declared, and sipped the last of her wine.

“Maybe so.”

He cleared their plates and she followed with the empty glasses. Her hair had come loose and danced around her shoulders. The left tie of her green block-printed dress dropped, exposing a blue bra strap. He glanced toward it and she pulled it back up her shoulder. “You haven’t lived long enough to see that the world can chew you up and spit you out. And, because of your demographic advantage, you may never see that.”

“And you’re far too cynical for an artist,” he countered, uncorking a bottle of Bordeaux and gathering fresh goblets. He walked to the sofa with Revati in tow, and sat down, setting the bottle and glasses on a walnut hand-carved coffee table. They faced the large window. The moon was a sliver, the water so dark it was invisible. But for the faint roar of waves, it was as though a void had yawned open outside, threatening to swallow the villa and them.

She sat down next to him and took the glass he poured. Intoxication had loosened their tongues. She was enjoying his company in spite of herself, in spite of his rarefied life. “Why should art be borne of hope?” she asked. “Art reflects life.”

“No!” His wine-addled bellow was a touch too loud. “Art expands the imagination of what is possible. Art is our doorway to worlds that don’t exist. I mean, look at your paintings! You’ve reimagined women dominating men in the same way men dominate women now.”

“And how is that hopeful?” she countered, sitting up and bringing her nose dangerously close to his. “I’m reversing the ugliness of patriarchy. It’s a statement on the shitty state of the world. No one should live in a world where one sex dominates the other!”

“But, wait, but wait!” he sputtered.

She snatched his wine glass, set both glasses onto the table, and shushed him with her hands, giggling. “Don’t say it, Matt, don’t say it!” She could silence him by putting her mouth on his. He would let her, she was sure.

He clutched her hands away from his mouth and pulled them into his chest, holding her momentarily captive. “Listen to me, listen, listen, listen. Your reimagining of an alternative world allows us to interrogate this one. It opens the door to a more hopeful world. You are hopeful by virtue of being an artist. By definition. Yes, yes, yes, you are!”

She pulled her hands out of his powerful grip. “Let go, you brute!” she yelled.

He dropped her hands, aghast. Her painting in his bedroom and all that it illustrated called out to them both. An awkward silence bloomed in the inches between them.

“I need to use your restroom,” she announced abruptly, and stood.

* * *

Revati sat on the edge of the gleaming white porcelain clawfoot tub taking measured breaths, in and out, in and out.

She surveyed a polished brass monkey, impertinently holding forth a roll of toilet paper and sighed. This sumptuous villa, filled to the brim with uniquely lush art, the ocean at its doorstep, embodied a life so far beyond the reach of her dreams. She hated him for it. His easy ignorance of hardship.

A prince in his pert little palace.

The feel of his soft lips against her hands reared up. Why had she touched his mouth? Twice! She was tipsy. The wine had diluted her judgement. Perhaps that was his intention. She ought to leave. Now.

She stared at her reflection in the large antique wood framed mirror filling one wall of the luxurious bathroom. Checked her teeth and swirled water to clean the wine stains. Before she knew what she was doing, she began lathering her armpits with his lavender scented hand soap.

Nothing’s going to happen. But, just in case.

She rinsed herself and patted her pits dry. Pulled her hair back and tied it in a loose bun, peeled off a few strands, tucked a few back in, until she was satisfied, then returned to the living room.

He smiled up at her. “I’m soused,” he confessed with a crooked smile.

She perched on the arm of the sofa, keeping out of his reach. “I should go,” she pronounced, as though merely saying the words would raise the guardrails between them.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay a while?” he asked, staring at her through thick lashes. “There’s half a bottle left and I can’t finish it on my own.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Matt.” There. It’s out in the open.

He studied her, then pulled out his phone. “Let me call you a ride.”

“I can call myself a ride,” she insisted, balking inwardly at the dreadfully expensive fare from Malibu to Highland Park. At least $100, even this late in the evening.

“No. I’m the one who pulled out the wine,” he insisted. “It’s my fault you can’t drive yourself back. What’s your address?”

She moved toward him, taking the phone from his hand, and typed in her address, aware his eyes were in line with her derriere. She handed the phone back and found herself sitting next to him once more.

“About ten minutes,” he announced, staring at the screen. “Isn’t technology amazing?”

“It is. But it’s also a death knell for art. AI’s going to kill art.”

“There you go again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Predicting the worst, most cynical outcome.”

She shook her head. “You are a scientist—pragmatic, logical, rational. How are you so... so hopeful about everything? Physics is all about rules. Once you understand the rules of the physical world, you know the limits of that world. There are limits on everything! Gravity, time, space.”

“You know a lot about physics?” he asked, eyebrows arching.

“Are you surprised? I loved physics in college. I almost changed majors.”

“I’m not surprised at all. You might be the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

He was flattering her again. Flirting. Again.

“Anyway, science is about discovering the rules of nature,” he continued. “But it’s not limited to that. In fact, rather than limits, science has layers. And you have to constantly dig beneath the layers to peer at what’s underneath. If you don’t allow the rigid rules of the known world to limit you and the possibilities of nature, that’s when the most exciting discoveries happen. And then it’s a matter of testing and pushing the limits to see what’s real and what’s an artifact.”

She thought of the many places he traveled to on Universal Mysteries, interviewing scientists in remote corners of the globe, synthesizing their discoveries expertly for a lay audience. She’d binged several episodes online after getting home the previous night.

“You have an answer to everything, don’t you?” she asked softly. Outside the moon had set and the sky was pitch-dark.

“Maybe you could open yourself up to new possibilities,” he said, reaching toward her and tucking a curl behind her ear. He rested a warm hand against her cheek and she shivered inwardly. “Maybe you are what the art world needs,” he continued, “to blow things open, to expand into new possibilities.”

“You live a cushy life, Mr. Fernández,” she countered, smiling wanly. She peeled his hand from her cheek and placed it in his lap with deliberate slowness. “You seem determined for me to stay, but I need to leave.”

“What? I’ve called you an Uber!” he countered hotly. He checked his phone. “It’ll be here in a few minutes!”

She surveyed him. “You know, all evening there’s been this unspoken dynamic at play right here between us. And I want to name it, because you are so... so damn naïve, living here in your stunning beachfront home. You think you can advise me on how to live my life because you have the wealth and privilege I don’t have. Could never have.”

“Revati, that’s not what I...”

“You’ve held me hostage all evening in your house because you had ten thousand dollars to drop on a whim, on a painting you bought from a gallery you happened to step into late one night. You have the kind of money to buy my art without a second thought. But you’re buying a piece of me.” Her nose stung, tears imminent.

He was silent, his eyes pained. For a moment they stared at one another. Then, he spoke. “You resent me because I bought your art.”

“I resent you. Deeply. You get to own me. You’ll be enjoying me on that wall in your bedroom each night, smug and satisfied.” A drop sprang out one eye and rolled down her cheek. She smeared it away. “What do I own?”

Silence.

His phone buzzed, startling them. The screen flared to life, it’s blue light crashing into them. He glanced at it.

“It says you have five minutes to get in before the driver leaves.”

She moved to stand but his hand shot out to hold hers.

“Revati. You could own me,” he said, his voice low and cracking. A gust of ocean wind rattled the window, shattering her resolve. She remained seated.

He gently drew her to him, lifted her glasses off her face and set them on the coffee table. Leading her atop him, his hand fell away. He submitted and sank into the corner of the sofa.

Well, shit.

She didn’t really desire him. She was the archetypal starving artist, barely getting by, surviving on fresh air and principles.

And he was a fantasy. A hot celebrity who offered money and bragging rights. And an opportunity to balance the scales.

Words were unnecessary now. She reached toward him unhurried, gently ran her left hand behind his neck as his breathing sharpened, then grasped his shoulder length hair, tightening her grip around it until he gasped.

Holding on to his hair, she brought him close to her face and bored her eyes into him by the pale glow of the porcelain lamp. Her right hand slid toward the waist band of his shorts and she felt him shiver.

Outside, the insistent bleat of a car horn was swallowed by the roar of waves.