Chimera Read Online Free Page A

I dive across my bed to make eye contact with my screen.
    Sera : No worries. I’m sorry if I woke you up.
    Me : Nah, I needed to get up anyhow. What’s up?
    Sera : I wanted to ask you something but now it seems kind of silly.
    Me : Go ahead. Ask.
    Sera : Feel free to say no. It won’t hurt my feelings and I don’t want to upset your wife.
    Right now, I think this little game is cute, but I know in time it will get on my nerves. I’ve never understood why women do that, why they need to have a man reassure them they want to hear what they’re thinking. For the love of God, just say what you want to say! But for now, it’s endearing that she’s shy and seemingly insecure.
    Me : I’m no longer married. Please ask.
    Sera : Well…I have a gallery opening next week and was going to see if you wanted to come?
    Holy shit. I’m speechless. I haven’t been around anyone in the art community in so long that I likely don’t know anyone involved anymore, which could be a good thing. It’s doubtful I’ll run into anyone I know, but if I do, people will ask questions. I have no clue how to handle answering anything regarding my whereabouts in the last five years. Even worse, admitting to people I’ve done nothing in terms of work is humiliating.
    Debating in my head what the actual implications of this outing could be, I apparently took too long to respond.
    Sera : Shit. I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t ask you. I’m sure you have a hundred other things to do and my gallery exhibit is not high on the priority list. Wait, you’re not married?
    Me : Sera, stop. That’s not it at all. I would love to come. No, I’m not married but would you mind if I brought someone with me?
    Sera : Oh. No. Not at all. That would be great.
    Me : Great. Can you send me the details?
    Sera : Really? Oh my gosh. Wow. Yes. That would be amazing. It’s next Thursday. 7pm at the West End Gallery.
    Me : I’ll see you then.
    Sera : I’m so excited. Thank you! I can’t believe Bastian Thames is coming to my opening.
    Me : Hey, Sera. Please don’t get excited. I’m happy to come but remember it’s been a long time since I’ve been on the art scene.
    Sera : Oh hush. You’re too modest. Thanks again for coming. I’ll see you soon!
    Me : Thursday. See you then.
    There’s the elusive knock on my door. Nate. He’s going to kick my ass when I tell him what I’ve volunteered him for. I pull on sweatpants before going to answer the door while he continues to pound like he’s the police trying to wake the damn dead. Throwing the door open, I find Nate with a shit-eating grin spread across his face.
    “What the fuck are you so chipper about?” I ask him.
    “I had an idea and took it upon myself to make some calls.” He pushes past me, making a beeline for the couch.
    “Please, make yourself at home. What did you make calls about?”
    “Your kitchen.”
    “I hope you’re joking.”
    “Not at all. I realize we have very little time before that shit starts to spoil on the wall if it hasn’t already. So, I called the Greenville Pilot and talked to the guy who heads up the community arts crap for the paper. I gave him a rundown on what you created, and asked him how we could showcase it.”
    “You did what? What the hell were you thinking, Nate? That isn’t serious art in there. It’s fucking food on a goddamn wall. It’s like adult finger painting. Are you fucking insane? Please tell me you didn’t give him my name.” The look on his face answers all my questions. He’s serious. He did call, and he absolutely gave him my fucking name.
    “Bastian, calm down. He was interested. Really interested.”
    “Of course he was, but not for quality art. He wants the headline story on a painter who lost his ever-loving mind.”
    “Not at all. We spent an hour talking about your work, how you’d created it, the stuff you used, blah blah blah. He was fascinated. You don’t get it, Bastian. The art community misses you. They want to know what