Satisfaction
621 Words
The studio was transformed. The smell of wet clay and raw earth had been replaced by expensive catering and the crisp scent of Pinot Grigio. Polished spotlights hung from the rafters, illuminating the wooden plinths that held the "fruits of the labor" from the last six months.
Justine stood nervously in a black dress, a glass of wine trembling slightly in her hand. Damian, looking uncharacteristically sharp in a charcoal button-down, stayed glued to her side. His hand was a steady weight on the small of her back—a silent reminder that no matter how the night went, he was her anchor.
"Look at that," he whispered, nodding toward the center of the room. "The star of the show."
On the main auction plinth sat Justine’s amber bowl. The studio owner had chosen it as the headline piece for the silent auction, citing its "raw, emotional texture and sunrise-like glaze." It looked nothing like the uniform, mass-produced pieces nearby; it looked like a recovery.
The evening was in full swing when a familiar, rhythmic clicking of heels echoed against the concrete floor. Gale swept in, draped in a faux-fur stole and carrying a notebook as if it were a holy relic.
"Darlings! I made it!" Gale announced, giving Justine a dramatic air-kiss on both cheeks.
"You're late," Justine teased, though she was genuinely glad to see her. "And what's with the notebook? Are you taking minutes for a board meeting?"
Gale’s eyes sparked with a new kind of fire—one that wasn't fueled by drama or espresso. "Actually, I have an announcement. While you two have been playing in the mud, I’ve finally started my true calling. I’m a writer."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "A writer? Since when?"
"Since I realized my life is far too interesting not to be documented," Gale said, tapping the notebook. "I’ve joined a late-night workshop. It’s gritty. It’s intense. It’s mostly me complaining about your 'No-Gale Tuesdays' on paper, but my instructor says my prose is 'vividly aggressive.' I’m working on a memoir. Or a thriller. I haven't decided if the protagonist gets married or commits a crime yet."
Justine laughed, feeling a surge of pride for her friend. Gale finally had a project that wasn't just "fixing" Justine.
As the night drew to a close, the studio owner stepped up to the microphone to announce the results of the silent auction.
"And finally, for the piece titled The First Sunrise," the owner announced, "we had a fierce bidding war. It has been sold to an anonymous bidder for three times the asking price."
Justine gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Three times? Who would pay that for my lopsided bowl?"
Damian smiled, pulling her closer. "Someone who sees what I see, Just."
Across the room, Gale was busy scribbling in her notebook, her head down, looking remarkably focused. She didn't look up when the announcement was made, but as she tucked her notebook into her bag to leave, she caught Justine’s eye and gave a subtle, conspiratorial wink before disappearing into the night.
It wasn't until the next morning, when a delivery person arrived at the flat with a carefully wrapped package and a note, that Justine knew. She unwrapped the box to find her own amber bowl resting inside.
The note was written on a page torn from a notebook in Gale’s messy, looping scrawl:
This belongs in the house that built it. I’ve got the story; you keep the art. Happy Tuesday (I guess). Love, Gale.
Justine placed the bowl on the sideboard right where it was meant to be.
- Writer
