Clair wasn’t so sure about this art show opening. Her cousin Blair had send her an e-mail that went as follows:
Clair wasn’t this type of girl. Sure, she loved going to art museums and would walk inside galleries to look at the art, but not on opening night. Seemed like too much pressure and she had a bad history with them. She used to go to art openings with her ex-girlfriend because her ex loved seeing all of the other lesbians and making small talk about shit Clair didn’t care to talk about.
“Oh, really? That bakery in Culver City has great gluten free sandwiches. Cool. I’ll remember that when I want to die a slow death.”
She wasn’t popular at these openings. In fact, that’s part of the reason her girlfriend dumped her. She didn’t see any point in dating someone who didn’t like the same things she did, and Clair really didn’t see the point in dating someone who didn’t eat bread. This would be Clair’s first opening since Robyn (her ex, not the singer). She wanted to be optimistic about the situation, after all, cousin Blair had surprisingly good taste for a lesbian living in Lombard with her mom.
Clair was dressed in her finest funeral apparel: black button up, black blazer, black pants rolled up ever so slightly and black boots. She called it “lesbian at a funeral-chic.” The place was packed which was surprising because the art was just photographs that a ten-year-old could’ve taken. Clair felt overwhelmed by the amount of young, hip, elusive lesbians in the room and underwhelmed by the Instagram art on the walls. Just as the room chatter rose, along with the temperature, the crowd seemed to part down the middle and Clair saw a young woman standing there alone. She looked at her and immediately realized she wasn’t interested in the least bit and turned around before the woman caught her looking, which she had. When she whipped around she bumped into Grace, a lesbian who is probably in a band or, at the very least, a fan of bands.
“No, no, no. It was me, I was spacing out looking at this piece.” Grace had the voice of a sexy tiger if I tiger spoke.
Clair points to the 20×30 framed photograph. It was a foot in sand.
“Right, this one. This got me frazzled too. It’s just-the foot, in the sand. Umm. Says so much about corporate America and the big foot they have on top of us.”
“No, this shit is awful, I would rather put a nude portrait of my parents on my wall than this.”
Clair panics. Her crude charm is backfiring.
“Sorry, too much?”
“This is my art. I’m the photographer.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Clair bows her head and starts to sweat out of her now appropriate funeral attire.
“I AM kidding you. I saw a flyer at Intelligentsia so I came.”
“Thank the heavens, I was going to have to write a blog about this experience if that were the case.”
“You have a blog?”
“No, which means I would need to start a tumblr and honestly, I do have the time but really don’t want to be doing that with my time.”
Clair steps back and tried to look this gal up and down without the bus stop feel. She had amazing hair and her eyes, oh her eyes. It’s like…could she see into Clair’s soul with those big, beautiful brown eyes? She hoped so. She was wearing a funky dress with cool boots and her scent had Clair rolling.
“What perfume are you wearing? It suites you.”
“Just tea tree oil.”
“Yes, that’s it. That’s what I thought. That would’ve been my first guess for sure.”
“Dryer sheet. Oh, and unscented lotion.”
“Right, I think I caught that unscented lotion.”
They both laugh. People are bumping into them. Lesbians are checking them both out. Clair feels daggers coming from across the room and sees her ex-girlfriend Robyn standing with her new girlfriend, some yoga teacher who was getting a metaphorical boner for the art. Clair turns quickly and asks-uh, wait—she hasn’t asked this girl what her name is. The readers yell “It’s Grace,” but Blair can’t hear them. Oh well, no time for small talk, she needed to get out of eyesight before the eye daggers were replaced with eye ninja stars or worse, audible sighs.
“Want to go look at the art that’s in the corner?” asks Clair.
“Are you escaping lesbians?”
“The one who has been looking at me since we started talking?”
The girl points over near her ex, but her finger hits that girl Clair wasn’t interested in at all from earlier.
“No, I don’t know her.”
The girl takes Clair’s hand and escorts her towards the opposite corner. Her hands are so soft and paired with Clair’s moisturized hands thanks to her unscented lotion, this is definitely the softest pair of hands that ever was. Clair decides at this moment to start reconsidering her attendance at art show openings.
Check back every week for a new “Lesbian Love Story” and visit mowelch.com for more on the writer/artist.