As promised, Ezra had emailed the details of his mural along with dimensions and pictures of the space. I could see what he meant about the wall being awkward in his otherwise trendy restaurant. The artwork he’d picked nagged at my creative eye, demanding more of something. But that something was hard to put my finger on. Despite the sizes of the various pieces, they looked small in the big space.
He’d included another picture of a design he’d tried in the past that had featured more artwork in an effort to fill the space, but that had only made it look cluttered and overly decorated.
To his credit, a mural would be perfect. It would fill the wall without making it feel chaotic or overused. He wanted something attention grabbing and eye catching without trying too hard to be those things. I had the perfect idea. Well… if I could get it just right.
I spent the majority of the afternoon sketching ideas, still disbelieving that I’d actually agreed to do it. Especially considering the time I would have to spend at Bianca before and after hours.
Ezra wanted the project done as quickly as possible, understanding my limitations both with my real job and his dining hours. We would set up screens until it was finished, but they weren’t ideal.
We’d planned a time to meet this week so I could scout out the space in person. But knowing it would take weeks to finish, he wanted me to start next weekend.
When I’d told Vera what Ezra asked of me, she hadn’t been fazed at all. “Obviously, he hired you,” she’d said. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“It’s weird though, right?” I’d pressed. “He’s stalking my professions.”
“You’re the best, Molls. He recognizes that. He wants it for his businesses. You should feel flattered.”
She was right. And I did feel flattered. But I also felt too hot and breathless with nerves and maybe like I was going to puke at any given moment.
Working for Ezra Baptiste was this strange dichotomy of receiving major opportunities, but also getting gigantic chances to screw everything up in the biggest way possible on the biggest stage possible in front of the biggest audience possible.
I still couldn’t believe I’d demanded he butt out of his EFB account. What had I been thinking? Was I really planning on handling that entire account all on my own?
My computer made a sound, alerting me that I had a new email. I jumped at the sound, afraid it was Ezra firing me already. He’d come to his senses.
Only it wasn’t Ezra, it was the little Tucker. He wanted to schedule a meeting first thing in the morning. We had things to go over. He needed updates on where I was with the Black Soul account. We were meeting with them face-to-face for the first time this week, and we had to prepare strategically.
Realizing, I wasn’t nearly where I should be with that project, I took a minute to panic. Shooting back an email full of false bravado, I agreed to the meeting. Then, I abandoned Ezra’s mural and dove into my real job.
Black Soul was the project that would change things for me, I reminded myself. This was the one that would be the foundation of a lifelong career. This was the one that should be getting all of my attention.
I played around with graphics and fonts and the exact measurements for every single detail. It was tedious and precise and I drove myself crazy with over-the-top perfectionism. But the wrong font could mean the difference between a wild success and utter failure. Same with the right placement. Even the slightest degree one way or the other could mean a graphic I had slaved over, poured myself into and placed all my hopes and dreams in could totally bomb.
The key to graphic design wasn’t natural talent. It was the patience to be totally, completely, obnoxiously anal with every minute detail. It wasn’t just the devil that lived in the details. Designers had real estate there too.
My graphics were as perfect as humanly possible because I didn’t leave room for error. I would spend hours fussing over moving elements one degree at a time or finding just the right shade of a specific color.
Painting was the same way. I couldn’t just slop something on canvas. I mixed paints until they were the exact shade I’d imagined. I meticulously added details and color and with slow, painstaking care breathed life into what was once flat, white space.
I took nothing and created something.
When my eyes started to cross, I decided it was time for a break. I stood up, stretching my hunched shoulders and worried over the hump I knew I was growing.
This was why I would be single for the rest of my life. Give me another five years and I was going to be a living, breathing cosplay of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Another Disney reference? You’re welcome.
I walked over to my kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from my fridge. I rummaged around for something to eat, but there wasn’t anything except Greek yogurt and carrot sticks.
The rumors were true, I was a terrible cook. It wasn’t that I had never been interested in learning how, but the kitchen was my mom’s space and she didn’t often invite visitors. The few times I had been allowed to help out, she’d been so obsessed with the mess and my mistakes that I’d been too afraid to try. Eventually, I gave up.
In recent years, I’d asked Vera for help, but even she had been daunted by the amount of work it would take to teach me simple tasks. I couldn’t bring myself to take interest now. It had been ruined for me.
Plus, I was really good at ordering takeout. Not to brag, but it was one of my top life skills.
Opening my junk drawer, I rifled through the different menus that delivered in a reasonable amount of time, but nothing sounded good. What I really wanted was breakfast because that was what Sunday night needed. I didn’t want dishes or anything heavy. I just wanted… cereal.
But the cupboards were bare. Also the milk was expired. I would have to leave the house. Which was a travesty.
Stopping by the bathroom, I threw my wilder-than-usual hair into a messy bun on the very top of my head, not bothering with the specifics of making it look nice. I’d been working all day, so my outfit was straight from the I’ve-given-up-on-life-completely collection. Paint-stained yoga pants, and an off the shoulder sweatshirt I’d stolen from my dad and cut the collar off. Basically, I looked homeless.
I grabbed my keys and my wallet and headed for the small market a couple of blocks away. The sun sat low in the sky, hidden by the tall buildings rising up on every side of me. I wrinkled my cold nose and hurried along quiet streets that had been abandoned for the evening.
The market was quiet when I stepped inside. I shivered in the fresh warmth and inhaled the delicious smells coming from the deli. My stomach rumbled and I remembered why I was here.
I snagged a basket next to the door and headed for the produce. Clementines were a staple in my kitchen, but mainly because I was irrationally terrified of scurvy. I could admit that I didn’t have the best diet, something Vann liked to remind me of constantly. But I’d be damned if I got scurvy because I didn’t get enough Vitamin C.
I rounded the corner to the dairy section, wishing I’d grabbed a cart instead of a basket now that I had to tote around milk and oranges. And coffee creamer. Oh, and bagels. Also cream cheese. And some new yogurt I’d never tried before.
Maybe I should go grocery shopping more often…