Sinking

pursuits

"What if you sell your paintings?" He exclaimed suddenly, sitting bolt upright and looking at me with those wide blue eyes.

I furrowed my eyebrows and took my head off the table. "As if anyone would buy them."

He narrowed his eyes unconvincingly. "As if? Babe, your paintings are amazing. Why do you think you won that scholarship? Random people off the streets voted for you. This means random people off the streets would buy from you. You have years worth of paintings. Think of how much that would help!"

Phil was right. He was always right, and it frustrated me more than it assured me. But did I want to sell my paintings? It would be worth it, of course, but... they were so many memories. My paintings told stories; they told of when I was young and happy, they told of when tragedy struck and I turned to the colors on my palette, they told of the years of nothing I experienced, they told of how my path was suddenly transformed completely due to the existence of one boy. The growth of my talent, the moments when my brush strokes were messy and heavy due to despair. My paintings were an autobiography I never planned on publishing.

I supposed there were some paintings I could choose that I would be okay with selling. But I was eighteen, no one knew who I was; hadn't anyone realized that you pretty much needed to die in order to be a famous artist? If I got hit by a car tomorrow, maybe Phil could sell them all in my name and people would care suddenly. But it was no use trying to sell things now, when I was, again, eighteen, and unknown by everyone.

"People might like them, but I'm not famous enough. You have to be dead to be a famous painter," I explained.

Phil pulled his phone from his pocket. I stared at him while he dialed a number and held the device to his ear.

"Hi," He greeted whoever answered the ringing, "I'm calling to ask about a person. What do you know about Dan Howell?" He then pressed speaker and held the phone out in front of the two of us.

I looked at him like he was insane, but listened to the phone anyway.

"Dan Howell?" The voice responded, and I flinched; they were probably confused because they had no idea who the hell I was. "Yes!" I widened my eyes in surprise. "He's the guy that won the legendary scholarship. Did you know five years ago they had one and no one won because they weren't good enough? Everyone here knows who he is, I'm guessing that's how you know?"

"Yeah!" Phil told them cheerily, "Do enough people know him that they would buy his art? I've heard it's really amazing, so I'm just wondering."

"Really amazing?" The person sounded like they were in awe. "They're astounding! Magnificent! I've only ever seen the ones he presented and the ones the high school has given to the university. I'd buy any of his paintings, if they're that good. His one of the girl with freckles? It's hanging in the hall and every night when I leave work I consider stealing it."

Phil laughed and I fought a smile. "I heard he might have an art sale soon," He told the person, and I bit my lip when they audibly gasped.

"I'll have to go to that! Anyway, someone is at the desk, so I have to leave. Hope you got whatever information you needed!" The phone cut off.

"Okay, okay," I began before my boyfriend could gloat. "I guess some people would buy them. I'll do it. Later, we can choose which to sell and then I'll call the university and blah, blah, blah. For now," I leaned toward him, "We have all the time in the world." His lips met mine as our thoughts both seemed to migrate to the same place in the span of a second.

Soon enough, I was in his lap; his arm on the counter in order to support our weight as the stool began to tip backwards, neither of us actually caring because we hadn't had a moment alone in a while. He bit my bottom lip with haste, and I responded with a low moan in the back of my throat.