A Pocket Archive (37)

My phone pinged. A picture of the painting I'd started was waiting in my inbox along with a caption.

'Sometimes I want to literally kick you.'

'And I will if you try to bury your talent."

Lukewarm coffee with cheap creamer stung the back of my nose before the screen lit up and my favorite name flashed across the screen. Choking back the laugh, I quickly glanced both ways in the lobby, then answered, a familiar warm, golden light instantly spreading through my entire being. I could picture my gentle giant in the kitchen, probably still in his boxers with the frame in one hand and his phone in the other, unable to wait to say what he wanted, even though he knew I was on my shift. Before I could say hello, my name and an aggressive string of dumbstruck awe and admiration mixed with what could only be called vehement threats of positive encouragement rumbled through the speaker, his rich accent curling around every syllable.

I couldn't help it. I broke into laughter, happiness wrapping around me like a warm blanket, and slumped across the counter. I could barely breathe. It would seem like a strange kind of encouragement, if you didn't understand the cultural nuance, but I am certain there is no better cheerleader than an aggressive Slavic person who really, really loves you.

I could not wait to get home and paint.