Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“Ajei was her name,” I casually begin at the same time June shuts the vehicle off. “We met out in Arizona. She…loved…her Navajo roots yet often felt stunted by them. She was constantly torn between wanting to stay close and true to how she was raised and wanting to just be…free. Free to define herself not just by her ancestors and cultural confines but by her own desires and beliefs and truths. A huge part of me got that.” My mouth runs away without my consent. “Gets that.” Quickly clearing my throat precedes continuing. “Anyway, we met at a local bar – she grew up in a dry county and confessed whenever she ran away from home hitting bars were a must – and got to talking and eventually decided to collaborate on something. We did a painted desert mural on the door of this roadside motel we got a room at and in the morning – after breakfast and sex in the bathroom of the diner – we went and got tattoos.” Tugging my sleeves up allows me to expose the line of text that lives at the crease of my elbow. “Shiyázhí, yéego ánít’į́.” My stare drops to the artwork in a dreamy nature. “Give it your best effort, my child.” The corner of my lip curls towards the ceiling. “It reminded me of something my dad used to say when he was alive. The line is meant to honor him in its word…and my time with her and her art and her culture by the choice of language.” The sudden realization I’ve been too open and too exposed is what leads to me yanking my sleeve back down on a muttered, “We should get inside. Get this project going.”
Rather than leave June the chance to respond, I exit the vehicle.
Keep my stare on the surrounding sights.
Sweep the scene for anything and anyone who doesn’t fit the suburban stereotype because they are most likely to have the info I want.
Plus, it prevents me seeing the sympathy over my father’s death.
I don’t need that shit.
I didn’t need it when he died.
I damn sure don’t need it now.
Inside Smudge, the art shop she found, we’re immediately accosted by bright colors and artistically designed signs that tell customers which direction to travel if they’re looking for something in particular.
Luckily for me, I’m not.
Which is lucky for June too.
Something tells me she doesn’t get to nurse her artistic style as much as she wants.
“Tell me, June Bug,” I nonchalantly begin after posing for a picture with a basket so that she can send my aunt proof that she still has a watchful eye on me. “What was your art major in college? Digital? History?”
“Ou!” She unexpectedly squawks, summoning my attention over my shoulder to where she’s rubbing her forearm.
“I’m gonna make an educated guess and assume it wasn’t performance given your adorable need to be bubbled wrapped.”
“I don’t need to be bubble wrapped.” June sassily snips yet in doing so trips over the leg of a display stand housing yarn. “Ou!”
Swallowing my snicker occurs but not my sarcasm. “You were saying?”
“I was saying,” she huffs out in frustration, “that I have a bachelor’s in Commercial and Advertising Arts.”
I stop to visually explore the different paintbrushes nearby at the same time I verbally prod, “Why that?”
“Guess it was one of those if you can’t do, teach scenarios except that not only can I not create art, but I also have no interest in telling others what to think about art or artists aka actually teaching.”
“There are numerous ways to teach without teaching, June Bug.”
“Thank you, young Jedi. Is there any other wisdom you’d like to embark upon me during this lost ode to The Empire Strikes Back?”
Her snark receives a loud, open mouth laugh that shakes my entire body and eventually gets hers to do the same as she joins me. “You know what? I like you feisty.”
“You’re probably the only one.”
“Sometimes one is enough.”
She swiftly presses her lips firmly together to suppress whatever whimper or witty retort wants to slip out.
“I also don’t believe that you can’t create art. Everyone is an artist because art comes in many, many forms. The simple question is what’s yours?”
“Uh…fingerpaint?”
Sharing another string of laughs is attached to me snatching up a couple of brushes.
We slowly stroll around the area, getting lost in the varying scents that are strictly unique to art supply shops. I relish the random whiffs of oil paint and odors of sealers. I lean into the disorganized nature of the clearance racks and happily take every opportunity to presented to sample various products, an activity that takes a lot of encouragement from me to convince June to join in on.
Her attempt to shade in…something identifiable to me…is accompanied by an unexpected question, “How do you afford to do all the shit you do?” She switches to the red piece of chalk. “Do you just live off your Trust Fund or do you have like an official bogus job title that gets paid by the company but really has nothing to do with it?”