Hood Ornaments

When they walked into the studio, Professor Holmes was waiting for them. His normal scowl turned into a concerned snarl.

“My God you two look like you have been hit by a bus and dumped in the Lakes.”

“Which lake?” Michael asked through a yawn, “We haven’t been sleeping getting prepared…”

“All of them dammit! And don’t you sass me boy, before you’re not breathing or sleeping. Morning Victoria, good to see you are ready to work even if your eyes are swollen shut.”

Tori pouted while Holmes spouted out directions to everyone. They scurried about like mice to cover, pack, gather and pack the work up to be transported to the gallery, “I promised this would be a grand event full of talented artists, eager dealers, proud family and wealthy buyers, an evening to remember.”

That statement was supposed to be motivation but not prolific.

Little did he know.

As dusk crept in, the finishing touches were being completed as the gallery was starting to fill in with curators, buyers and members of the press. The artists were in a makeshift green room sipping wine, smoking and putting the finishing touches on themselves. Tori decided not to wrap her hair this go around and allowed her locs to breathe. The only accessories she needed were the shells, beads and bells that were meticulously gathered at the ends. As she brushed a finishing powder which was supposed to bronze her skin, her hair jingled like wind chimes. In bellbottom jeans and Woodstock tee, she still dressed “down; but most of the artists did the same. To her, it wasn’t dressing down as much as being comfortable.

She would look at the penguins and mannequins and wonder how they could possibly enjoy themselves being so stiff. Their faces, especially the women’s, appeared that they would crack with each phony smile. Cheek kisses were as familiar as they could be, because lipstick smudges or smears simply would not be tolerated. Even though there were fabulous hors d’oevres being served, the thought just would never cross their minds to eat before their impact was made.

The men ate though. Four or five pieces of whatever at a time would be on their napkins. The woman drank.

And drank.

And…

Tori didn’t even like champagne, but these women seemed to drink it with casual abandon.

As if it were water.

Tori became occupied viewing the artists’ work. She became flush when she noticed people were starting to gravitate towards her wall. There were polite smiles and nods in her direction. Tori caressed the edge of the painting of her grandma, when one of the guests whispered,

“I love that piece.”

Tori turned around with her eyes glistening, “Thank you.”

The woman’s face became one of absolute shock, and she actually startled Tori when she firmly grabbed her elbow.

“You’re the artist?” She said with a tone tinged more with disbelief than approval, and Tori felt the need to defend herself.

“Yes, I am, and she is my grandmother.”

The woman didn’t even seem flustered as she waved away Tori’s rebuttal, “Darling, I didn’t mean anything by that remark. You’re just so…”

Tori’s brows started to meet in the middle of her head, while waiting for the woman to finish her sentence.

“…young darling, young. You can exhale and get that angry look off of your face. I need to take a closer look at the rest of your work, but I am definitely buying this one…”

The rest of what the woman said blended in with the music playing in the background. Tori mechanically smiled and took the woman’s card while accepting and returning a mannequin kiss. Her eyes, however, were fixated on the front door as Michael walked in. She smiled so wide one would have thought she was a fan rather than a complicated lover. He, on the other hand, allowed his gaze to drift like a mist above everyone’s heads. The only time his eyes became level with the room was when he spotted the wall where his work was displayed. His eyes squinted into a frown of disappointment. He noticed the occasional patron would walk by his work barely glancing at it. Tori’s smile faded as well. With determination and purpose, she walked over to his crucifixion painting and pretended that she had never seen it before. The woman who had given Tori her business card was standing next to her this time.

“I thought that was you.” She said with the same excitement that she had over Tori’s work.

“Unfortunately.” Tori replied so softly it would have appeared as if she was talking to herself.

“Is Michael here?”

Tori nodded and walked over towards the door. At that point, Michael had managed to squeeze his way in and some obtain champagne as well as a few admirers of the female persuasion. He nodded and chatted politely, but when he saw Tori, his face lit up instantly. So much so, it caused his admirers to sharply turn around. Their eyes dropped to the floor in embarrassment and they floated away from him one by one as if silently instructed. This left space for Tori to embrace him; he, in turn, picked her up and attempted to kiss her as if they were star crossed lovers in a romantic film. Tori pecked him on his lips and his chin, and he put her down to sporadic applause. Noticing the sheer look of terror on Tori’s face and the disappointment on Michaels, Holmes rushed in to save the day with several thunderous claps of his own.

“Ladies and gentleman, the art-teests appreciate your sentiments, but Mr. Chambers and Ms. Watts would greatly appreciate if you continued to eat, drink, browse…”

Then the soft jazz resumed its duet with the murmuring.

“…write checks.” Holmes said to the air before he leered at Michael then hissed into his elbow.

“There is no need to make a spectacle out of yourself. Your art is supposed to do that.” Then he fluttered away to charm checkbooks out of the patrons.

Meanwhile Tori found the waiter with the champagne and quickly swiped two glasses. One she downed instantly, returning the empty glass to his tray. The second she held onto as gracefully as she could. She was beyond embarrassed. This was supposed to be a glorious night, but it was becoming a glorious mess. She was trying to compose herself the best she could, but she felt her mouth transforming into a taut smile. She wondered if that was how one became a mannequin.

Public humiliation.

Plus isolation.

Add alcohol.

Stir.