Or was this heart a symbol of someone else’s love? It’s fragile. New. It needed to be cared for and fawned over to ensure its survival. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and frowned, contemplative. I don’t know the man in my sketch, but I’d imagine he’d be sweet. If I gave him my heart, he’d be tender. Not like Todd.
Fuck Todd.
I pressed my lips into a thin line and capped the marker, setting it down just beside me on the hardwood floor. Thoughts of the breakup immediately soured my mood. It had been messy, and entirely embarrassing on my part. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried that hard, hot angry tears streaking my face while runny snot plugged up my nose. I didn’t even remember the things I swore at him, and what he cursed back. All I could remember was that my throat was scratchy the next day from screaming and that I was the one who finally ended things.
I should have seen the breakup coming. Todd was never there, never really cared for my work and what I stood for. I still felt stupid for wasting two whole years on him. I sighed, lamenting for every wasted kiss, every fruitless compliment, all the time and energy I’d spent trying to be better for him. Todd never seemed to put in the same amount of effort. When I told him about the art fellowship in Sacramento, I thought he’d be happy for me. The fellowship was my golden ticket, the perfect opportunity to give me an edge in the competitive world of the fine arts. But instead of hugging me, or congratulating me, or doing anything a supportive and loving boyfriend should, Todd simply scoffed and rolled his eyes.
Like it’ll do you any good.
I balled my hands into tight fists. When we first started dating, Todd had pretended to be interested in art. He tried his best to impress me, reading up on popular art movements to dazzle me. But then he got lazy, started showing up less and less to my exhibits. Sure, they were small art shows. I knew they weren’t anything to write home about. But I’d worked day in and day out to secure my place at galleries, at libraries, and any other place willing display local artists. I was damn proud of my work. It was just a damn shame that Todd was not.
Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes and listened to the song playing over the speaker build up to the guitar bridge. At the end of the day, I supposed I should be grateful that things ended between us. The T in Todd really stood for toxic. With him nowhere near me, I’d finally get the chance to explore my artistic creativity. There’d be no more arguing about my art supplies being everywhere. No more bickering about getting another part-time job so we could pay the bills. I always found the money somehow. I didn’t see why he was so worried. I was a tried and true artist who could make a decent living off her paintings, not some con artist making a statue of sponges and demanding compensation.
This was my chance to truly shine. I was no longer tied down by his negativity, but the lack of room to grow in the small town I’d been born and raised in. What better place to spread my wings and try my luck than in the big city? Sacramento was alive, filled to the brim with beautiful colors, plentiful sounds, an array of smells, and decorated with unique textures that I couldn’t wait to study and try and apply in my work. I promised myself that when I moved out here, I was going to let the city serve as a bowl of inspiration. All I had to do was drink from it.
I glanced down at my sketchbook and admired the sharp lines I’d created. First thing tomorrow morning, I was going to dig out my wooden easel –which I was pretty sure was in one of the bigger boxes in the apartment hallway– I’d go out to town to grab a bagel at the local café just down the street, and I’d come home with a fresh canvas so I could work my magic. Now it was just an issue of finding a local and reasonably priced art supplies shop so I could get my hands on some beautifully rich paints. In the rush of the breakup, I’d left the majority of my oils behind.
Just as I was about to decide that supply shopping was tomorrow me’s problem, three heavy knocks came from the front door. I frowned. It was awfully late, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I stood and made my way to the front, peeking through the peephole first to make sure this wasn’t one of those home evasions my mother used to warn me about after watching late-night news.