Free Portrait of Us by A. Destiny

confident—solid letters. Not hurriedly scrawled, but purposeful. I blinked and made myself read the actual words.
    My brow furrowed as I moved down the list. He’d put down stuff like city hall, an abandoned set of train tracks, a homeless shelter, a large hospital on the east side. The twist in my stomach grew a little tighter. Where was the beauty, the art in those things? There was nothing on this list that appealed to me.
    I drew in a few steady breaths and dared a glance at him. His face was unreadable, eyes fixed on my list. He looked up, and I noticed a few small freckles on the bridge of his nose.
    â€œHmm. Our lists are . . . very different,” he offered.
    â€œWe have nothing even close to being in common.” I almost wanted to laugh because of how absurdly different our thoughts were. It would be hilarious, if there wasn’t a lot on the line. “Ideas?”
    â€œOkay.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Is there anything on my list that you don’t absolutely hate?”
    I was unable to hide the small sigh as I looked back down at it. “Um . . . I guess the train tracks isn’t too bad. But the rest of it isn’t quite . . .” My words stalled. How did I put it without sounding like an art snob? What would Ava say? “The rest isn’t what I would enjoy working on. It’s not my personal style.”
    Matthew’s lips thinned, and he quietly took the list from my hand. “Have you ever considered working outside of your style? I know you’re not a modern art fan, but there’s a lot of it out there that will change you, make you see the world differently. If you give it a try.”
    Something about his words made embarrassment burn in my chest. Was it my fault that I didn’t like his style? I jutted out myjaw and crossed my arms. “It might be easier to connect with work if it wasn’t a bunch of random splatters on a piece of paper, or a canvas with colored blocks. How is that supposed to ‘change’ me? What worldview will that give me, huh?”
    He narrowed his eyes and offered me back my notebook. “Corinne, have you ever been to a contemporary art gallery?”
    I shook my head. “No offense to you and your style, but nothing about that appeals to me. I stare at those pieces and see nothing, feel nothing. Some of them look like they were painted by a baby.” Okay, that was a bit of a low blow, but how could he deny the truth in my words? Blunt, but honest.
    Matthew stared at me so long I started to squirm. The sun beat down on the top of my head, and a line of sweat dribbled down my face. I resisted wiping it away, not wanting in that moment to look weak.
    Then he startled me. A rich, warm laugh poured from his mouth. “You don’t hold anything back, do you?” he said, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.
    My jaw loosened a bit, and I gave a small smile, the tightness in my chest easing up as well. “I have a lot of strong opinions. But I think most artists do.”
    Matthew watched a small drop of sweat slide down my neck. I swallowed, frozen in place. There was a curiosity in his eyes as he raked his gaze over my face, really looking at me like it was the first time he’d ever seen me. I’d never felt so thoroughly . . . studied. “I think the problem is you’ve not been exposed to a lot ofcontemporary art. Yes, there is some like the stuff you’re talking about. I admit it—I don’t understand it all. Nor do I think I’m supposed to,” he continued in a rush when I opened my mouth to reply.
    â€œThen what’s the purpose?” I asked, this time out of genuine curiosity, not hostility.
    Charlie and Maxine ran through the grass in front of us, breaking the strange thread of connection building. Good. I needed a moment to pull back from this intensity. Regain myself.
    â€œSometimes the purpose is for us to