Hardest of Hearts

Chapter 3: God Bless Bartenders

My neighbor played his music well into the night, and it wasn't until my exhaustion was too much to bear did I fall asleep.

The thought to go back and nicely ask him to turn it down did cross my mind, but after the last two failed attempts, I couldn't see him agreeing on the third. Not only did I think he still wouldn't acquiesce—which I'm sure he wouldn't—but going back a third time would feel a lot like begging, something I would never stoop low enough to do.

He seemed to find my irritance annoying, so maybe ignoring him is the right course of action to take.

"You look horrible," Vivienne tells me as I slide into the seat across from her and remove my sunglasses.

The coffee shop we always meet at is filled to the brim with bustling patrons, even at one in the afternoon. It's not shocking that Vivienne has already managed to snag a table, despite how packed the small café is. She probably tossed the poor bastards who were sitting here out before by the scruffs of their necks.

Vivienne, as always, looks flawless. Not a single one of her dark red, glossy hairs is out of place, and her hazel eyes are framed by perfect wings of eyeliner. My hooded eyelids could never.

"You're a bitch," I tell her. "I love that about you."

One side of her red lips tilts up as she pushes a cup of coffee towards me. "Didn't sleep much?"

I take a sip, already knowing that she's made it the way I like it: with a fuck ton of cream and even more sugar. "Hardly a wink."

"I hope that means you're making progress on the collection."

"It's... coming along," I reply carefully.

Her eyes narrow into slits. "Lola, you know how important this gallery opening is. Matisse Dupont RSVP'd yesterday morning."

I whistle lowly. "How'd you manage that one?"

Matisse Dupont is the most acclaimed art critic in all of New York, most of his fame tied up in notoriety. Known for his brutal critiques, he can destroy an artist's career before it even begins. His eyes are sharper than any blade and his words can cut down an artist faster than an axe could.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I've never had a piece that caught his eye. With the opening of the gallery, that's going to change, and I can't tell if I'm excited or nervous about it.

Vivienne is smug as ever, as she should be. She came to the city without a dime, much like myself, but quickly rose through the ranks as an art curator before deciding to blaze her own path. "I have my ways. Show me what you have so far."

She pulls what I've dubbed The Red Notebook of Pain from her purse, along with a fountain pen poised to write.

Cringing because I know that Vivienne is about to brutalize my sketches verbally and orthographically, I take out my phone.

As expected, she interrupts my explanations a billion times by the time I get to the end of the photo album. She has something to say about everything—the colors, the composition, the perspective, and her pen flies across her notebook as she does so.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't allow someone to tear apart my art like that, but not listening to Vivienne about art is on par with ignoring Shakespeare about playwriting. She didn't get to where she is without knowing exactly what she's talking about.

She sets her pen down. "Is that all you have for me today? Sketches? You are aware that I need paintings, right?"

I shrug. "I've started some grass."

"Grass," she repeats.

"It's a longer process than you think," I tell her defensively. Vivienne knows everything about everything art-related but can't actually create it for shit. Hence, why she's a curator/ gallery owner, and not an artist.