Jim dragged himself off the couch from his spot right next to the fan and headed to the bathroom to take a cold shower before going out for the night. He always hated this time of year in the city. For about two weeks at the end of July, without fail, New York became an unbearable sauna.
He wished he could have just worn shorts out tonight, but remembered that wasn't an option. This wasn't a casual "hanging out at the corner bar" night after all. Instead, he threw on some tan slacks and a short-sleeved button down shirt from his closet, then quickly brushed his damp hair, and headed out.
By the time he got to the gallery, he was already starting to sweat through his shirt. The air conditioning was a welcome relief – most of the galleries he had been to in the past in SoHo didn't have it. That being said, it was hard to ignore the stuffiness of the crowd, including two men in a corner wearing black suits as they animatedly discussed a painting on the wall. Only in New York, Jim thought, as he walked over to the makeshift bar in the back.
The glass of white wine in his hand made him feel a little less masculine as he walked by the artwork, but it was the only thing the bar had on ice so it would have to do. He wandered a bit, checking out the different pieces before finally finding the one he was looking for.
She told him it was surprise and he wouldn't be able to see it until the show. She had even barred him from coming into her studio space despite the fact that it was right next door to their bedroom.
But as Jim looked at the painting on the wall, he understood why. He could tell the painting was of him or, at least, he assumed it was him. Whoever it was was sitting at his old desk in the Scranton office, his back to the artist's view point.
"I still haven't come up with a title for it yet," he heard a voice say, and he looked over to see Pam standing next to him, smiling.
"Really?" he said, smiling back. "Do you need a suggestion?"
"Maybe."
Jim looked back at the canvas hanging on the wall. "Is that really how I look at work?"
"Not anymore," Pam replied. "You don't slump over your desk now the way you used to."
Jim could hear the sadness in her voice as she remembered how things used to be for each of them before they were able to finally put all of it in the past.
"Well, I think it's your best piece," he said.
"Yeah, well, that's only because you're in it."
"There is that," he replied with a smile on his face, "but really, I think it's probably your most honest piece."
Without saying a word, she handed him her wine glass and began digging into her purse.
"Um, Pam, I look like I'm double fisting white wine here. This is kind of embarrassing," he said sarcastically.
"Don't care," she said, finally finding what she was looking for.
He watched her walk up to the notecard next to her painting. Using the pen from her purse, she crossed out "Untitled" and wrote in "My Most Honest Piece" as the title. Stepping back slightly, she smiled at her work.
"You know," Jim said, coming up behind her, "I think you're going to have to do more paintings in this series now."
"This painting is part of a series?" she asked, grabbing her glass back from his hand.
"I'd just like to see more of the subject matter at work."
Pam laughed and gave him a bubbly smile. "I'll think about that for the next show."
Story Notes:
This is for the nothing_hip LJ community. I figured since I suggested the song [Cruel Summer by Bananarama] that I should write something. This was inspired by a recent trip to NYC.
Do not own the characters, do not want, will not take.
sharky is the author of 26 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 2 members. Members who liked Humidity also liked 1189 other stories.
