Page 7 of Pink Ink

I shake my head, my annoyance rising. “Not technically, however—”

“What qualifies you to be making any of these comments? You’re clearly not any kind of esteemedcritique.”

Ass.Hole.

He shouldn’t have started a conversation about the damn painting if he couldn’t handle a difference in opinion.

I huff. “Maybe I should have been asking your earlier question: Areyouoffended?”

His eyes harden. “No. I don’t see any merit in listening to the baseless opinions of someone who has no skill, experience, or expertise in the area.”

So he’s just insecure. Got it.

“To put your art on display is to bear your heart open.”

That’s what my mom told me the first time I submitted a short movie for my school’s film festival and bawled my eyes out when the judges ripped into my work. She sat me down, held my hand, and said,You’re a Sinaga, Reyna. Anaga.Dragon. You don’t wait for acceptance. You take it, and you burn everything in your way if you have to.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be going to an art gallery if you’re going to get hurt on another person’s behalf,” I say.

“Or maybe you shouldn’t comment on things you know nothing about.”

My heart lurches when he rounds on me. The proximity of his towering frame feels like I have fingers wrapped around my throat, slowly seeping oxygen from my lungs.

I’ll be damned if I let him try to intimidate me. “If I’m not mistaken, Maddox Shaw isn’t a woman. So my observations are neither baseless nor incorrect.”

“Please,” he scoffs. “Your ability to read makes you as qualified as a grade-schooler.”

Fine. If he wants to talk shit, then I’ll talk shit.

“Look upBefore the Mirrorby Édouard Manet, thenWoman at Her Toiletteby Berthe Morisot. Put them side by side, then ask yourself if you can tell which was painted by a woman. One comes down to the objectification of the subject; the other is the romanticization of it. A painting is a story condensed down to a single frame. The only thing Shaw is glorifying is his ability to use a paintbrush.”

The vein in his forehead throbs like he’s holding back from detonating. “Remembering the names of famous paintings doesn’t make you a valid critic. It makes you a nobody with too much time on your hands and no talent of your own.”

Wow. Low blow.

I can’t imagine why he’d take such personal offense to a critique on someone else’s work.

“Your inability to formulate a valid response to counter my observation is extremely telling of your so-calledqualificationssince the only comments you’ve offered are weak attacks on my person.” This is reminding me of childish bickering. “Come to think of it, the last time I used that tactic was in middle school.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to rip me apart in his mind.

I hold my breath, counting the seconds, waiting for the next attempt at degradation. Then I stand there dumbstruck, watching him storm out of the exhibition. Did he just… run away?

I blink.

What the fuck?

This needs to go in my imaginary book of bizarre encounters.

Whatever. He’s got some problems he needs to unpack with someone who isn’t me. Shaking my head, I check my phone to see Lawrence is still twenty minutes away. I wish I’d brought my laptop so I could make use of my time. I’ve already been here way longer than I’d intended.

At least I got to talk art with someone.

By the time he arrives, rain is battering down on the glass ceiling, and I’ve looked at all the installations and got in a good glower at Shaw’sFallen Angelpainting.

His face splits into a beaming smile that makes me uncomfortable on a cellular level because I feel nowhere near the same level of glee at seeing him.

Lawrence has a familiar face, one I feel like I’ve seen a hundred times before—the conventional attractiveness of an average man in his mid-twenties.