Six
It has been a month since Clarke had last seen Lexa. The past month had her sudden hectic schedule filled with excessive hours preparing the gallery to re-open. If someone asked her how much she enjoyed her life, she would respond, “It’s hell.”
Her ears were oblivious to the whining drills, the incessant hammering, and the deep chatter of the workers. After being immersed in the ambience, she had built a high tolerance. It became a part of her daily life.
She sat in a chair randomly placed amid the revamping of her small SoHo gallery, her ears accustomed to the shrill whining of drills, the incessant bang of hammers, and the deep chatters of the workers. Clarke was lost in a journey far from reality to a question that nagged at her conscience since she last saw Lexa.
What could she say to Lexa when she finished True Believer? Lexa wasn’t Jeremy Marsh…
Or Lexie Darnell, for the most part.
Lexa was… she was… well… a conundrum simply put. She was a broken record that played on repeat sounding to the deepest corners of Clarke’s inner sanctum. She represented the alluring, deviant, smooth-talker equipped with an overconfident ego and a wandering eye--- danger. But… at Dropship Brews, Lexa was visibly trying to be genuine, like freaky genuine. She wanted to learn why Clarke enjoyed reading what she did, she had purchased a coffee every morning for Clarke as an apology.
Clarke felt confused, and frustrated that she couldn’t draw a solid, firm conclusion, and move on. It was a tiring feeling. Truly. Nearly every day, her inner conscience often languidly drifted to Lexa; Lexa, Lexa, Lexa. Again, and again, and again. She groaned, her head throbbed. Make it stop.
“Clarke Griffin?”
Perhaps, Clarke could simply give her own personal critique of the quality of her favorite novel. Keep it simple, and not compare Lexa to any of the main cast. She could focus on the beautifully scripted relationship of Lexie and Jeremy, their illustrious moments of love woven together by the mastermind of romance himself, Nicholas Sparks.
She could explain her analyzation of why Lexie chose the cute, adorable, oblivious Jeremy. Why Jeremy chased after Lexie, and the significance of his epiphany. Clarke groaned once more. Case and point, despite her hard fought efforts, she couldn’t stop thinking about a particular green-eyed brunette.
She needed to know why.
“Clarke Griffin?”
Clarke blinked once. Twice, refocusing her casted gaze. Her assistant stood in front of her, face an inch away at eye level. The cautious probing stare of Harper’s inquisitive eyes in such close proximity startled Clarke. She hated when the brown haired
“I’m sorry, but are you present?” Harper asked apologetically as she withdrew her face, returning to a standing position.
Clarke slowly nodded, recovering.
“Alright then, your grand masterplan, an abstracted, subtle complexity correct? The vibes are a “coming of” or “overcoming” correct?”
Clarke nodded again.
“Colors are mainly white and with black paintings that are all related to loss, recovery, and pain?”
Clarke nodded once more. “That’s a bit bland and cliché when you put it like that,” she added.
Harper chuckled. “And lastly,” she glanced at the tablet in her hands, “you have chosen the appetizers and refreshments yes?”
Clarke tried to convincingly nod. She couldn’t lie for her life.
“Miss Griffin, after my many years of working with you, and being a friend, you are insulting me if you think that I cannot differentiate between lie and truth,” Harper winked.
Clarke cracked a nervous , scratching her head. “I guess I’ll get right on that then.”
“You better,” Harper joked, smiling at Clarke. “And you still have a few pieces to add before your big night, but that’s not for like a small while. You’re slowly making a comeback boss,” she playfully teased.
Clarke blushed, the rosy red burn of her cheeks breaking past its airtight barriers. “It’s not like that many pieces are in my exhibition.” She grinned. “Might I remind you of the gallery size? I have a small space you know?”
“Of course I know that,” Harper playfully drawled, “but it’s not like you have a ton of pieces to create.”
“Art takes time, it can take however long it takes, and whenever inspiration or emotion hits.” Clarke’s voice lost a chunk of its jesting light.
“Kidding,” Harper smirked.
Clarke blushed anew.
***
When Clarke arrived at Raven’s apartment, she tossed her bag on the kitchen table and immediately sought out the shower. She was exhausted, downright prepared to effortlessly crash into the soft covers of the new bed she has grown to love. However, soon, she would be moving back into her loft. Clarke knew that eventually this would happen. She came to terms with this long ago. She was ready.
“Grifffffff!” Raven screamed from god knows where. “Hurry your ass up! We’re having guests over tonight!”
Clarke groaned to herself. By guests over, her dear best friend probably meant Anya Woods, or the “not” new girlfriend (they refused to put a label on their “best friend” status). They were basically one and the same cut from the same cloth, an evil duo that pranked every single person in their friend group, and random strangers. They were the best of the best friends that filled their endless banter with flirtatious comments.
Clarke remembered the time that they walked around Central Park filming themselves as they asked passerbys if they wanted a BJ. They failed to specify, a BJ’s gift card. One guy, just blankly stared at the pair, another started interrogating the two for details, a third, a stranger who was visibly a woman, the intense judgment radiating past the distance of ten people. She later told Raven and Anya, “Are you really asking me this?”
“We’re having Italiano! Fettucine, linguine, whatever the hell you call it… with pesto, parmesan, and a salad!”
Raven had a plan. Clarke was well aware that Raven seldom cooked, and if she did, there was likely an underlying motive in motion. Clarke simply had to act the part, then Raven would eventually--- and accidentally--- reveal her true intentions.
Clarke could wait. She had all the time in the world. She chuckled, swiftly escaping into the solid clear space of the shower where she surrendered to the hot, boiling water molding around her body. She was relaxed at last, encompassed by the tranquil sanctum.