Page 69 of Wicked Pickle

I close my eyes. This is bordering on mania.

Symphony exists everywhere. In the ink, in my memory, before my eyes, in my head.

Songs are written about this feeling. Poetry. Sculpture. Dance.

I suppose it’s what makes an artist, this intensity. I’ve never considered myself one before.

But looking over all the sketches, overwhelmed by my need for her, my absolute obsession with seeing her again, I realize this is it. This is exactly it.

She’s my muse. My reason.

Fuck.

I search around for an envelope and shove all the sketches inside. I lick the flap and seal it closed, scrawling the words “Old tax quarterlies” on the outside so nobody will have the least interest in opening it but also won’t be tempted to toss it.

I shove it in the drawer. What would Symphony think of these drawings? Would she be impressed? Feel violated? Would they make her self-conscious?

Suddenly, I want to know more about art history. What did Mona Lisa think? Botticelli’s Simonetta, who starred in his most famous works?

I never studied any of it, simply picking up pieces here and there from school trips to museums or the glossy coffee table books Mom displayed in the white living room.

I’ve never had an urge to learn more. Know more. How much more accurate could I get in my drawings of Symphony with proper pencils? Or in acrylic or oil?

I don’t have time to take a class like that.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly going to be the next Banksy.

I leave the desk to help with setups. I own a bar. It’s an honorable profession, a necessary one.

I’m fine here. Just fine.

Symphony has to be a phase. Just an unexpected anomaly. I’m only intrigued because she’s so different, so outside of my biker bar norms.

It will fade. Maybe I can’t purge her with sketches like I’ve done with other experiences that weighed on my mind.

But there is no chance someone like her will stay with someone like me for long. She’ll move on to her important work.

And I’ll keep slinging drinks.

To make sure we know where we stand with each other, I unlock my phone and send her a quick text.

Me: Wear something to the library I can cut off you with a knife.

Symphony: Consider it done.

I let out a quick breath. There. That’s what we are. Risk-taking fuck buddies. Adrenaline junkies with our literal junk.

With that decided, I abandon the office to check the kegs for another night at the Leaky Skull.

CHAPTER 23

SYMPHONY

Jenna flops onto my bed. She was waiting in my apartment when I got here.

I toss my backpack on my desk. “I never should have given you a key.”

She waves her hand toward Sir Mix-a-Lot’s elaborate setup. “Someone has to feed your baby when you’re off banging bikers.”