Read From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) for Free Online Page A

collected from my lunch and stroll back to the gallery. A man in the distance, one walking toward me on the sidewalk, head down, reminds me of Dylan. Damn him for taking up more space in my head than he deserves.
    It’s not him though, just someone who reminds me of the Dylan I knew before the break-up.
    I need another focus. My next exhibit apparently isn’t challenging me enough. I need to get out of the gallery like I used to and go do a studio visit. I’ll visit my latest discovery. He lives in the Bronx. It’ll be good to get out of the city, so I catch a cab.
    An hour later, I slide the huge metal loft door open, the loud music blares. He once told me to come by anytime, day or night. He meant it. He likes me, maybe a little too much. I don’t mind his flirtations because he’s personable, charming, not sleazy at all. He goes by Jean-Luc, but one time I saw an electric bill on his bar and the bill was addressed to John. I suppose that Jean-Luc works better in the Manhattan art scene, feeding the illusion.
    Jean-Luc kisses me on the cheek before pulling me across the loft. He’s shirtless with paint splattered across his body—today blue and orange. He wears old black Dickies that hang low, and he never wears underwear. I find that oddly sexy. Jean-Luc is younger than me by a few years and enthusiastic, loves life, passionate about his work. He’d make a good lover. He promised me once, after lots of tequila, that he would be good to me and treat me well. I’ve imagined the potential several times.
    Standing in front of the large windows overlooking a dilapidated manufacturing plant, he finds the realness, the rawness of living here inspirational, wanting to share it with me. I don’t argue the lack of safety in the area because he’s gifted in his visions.
    I spot my picture taped to the window, centered on a pane of glass. The painting next to it is orange; an abstract woman in the center that he claims is me. She’s painted blue.
    Am I blue?
    He explains, “Life is happening whether you embrace it or not. You need to let go of the past, the pain, whatever holds you back from having a bright life. You need to free yourself, your mind, your heart.”
    It scares me that he might know me better than I thought. But he doesn’t know about the love of my life, or the breakup, or my breakdown that ensued. He knows me in the present, what I’ve given him, which isn’t much. I would have chosen black paint, and maybe if I’m in a good mood, charcoal grey. Charcoal grey feels more like the hue of my heart.
    I’ve been hurt and can’t seem to let go of the pain. I hate Dylan, but I don’t want to hate him anymore. I want to embrace life. But I have questions. Questions like— Why?
    Why did he leave me that day?

 
     
     
    “I HAVEN’T SEEN him since then,” I say, dragging a beet through the overly dressed Bibb lettuce on my plate.
    “But you want to. I can tell,” Brandon responds too confidently, cocky and brazen.
    I drop my fork and it crashes against the plate. Probably too dramatic, but I don’t care. I gave up the notion of caring years ago. Looking down at my lap, I rearrange the cloth napkin that has been slipping toward the floor because of the slick material of my dress.
    He says, “You’re avoiding the question.”
    “You didn’t ask a question. You simply stated—”
    “The truth.”
    I cock my head to the side and give him a look he’s become accustomed to. “Let’s not do this.”
    “ See? Still no response.” I hear his sarcasm. “Jules, do you want to see Dylan again? How’s that for direct?”
    “Dylan.” I pause as the once familiar name leaves my mouth, no longer having that distinct bad taste it used to summon.
    “Yes, Dylan Somers.”
    I swallow, then distract by taking a long gulp of my iced tea. Looking away, I stare out the crystal clear windows that overlook Central Park.
    When I turn back, Brandon has his head down, shaking it. He’s disappointed in me, I can