Spark of Fire

Raising the campaign glass to my lips, I pretended to take a sip, hoping I wouldn’t look too suspicious with my glass not emptying. I never understood what the rich saw in this bubbly beverage, I prefer red wine, the smooth, sweet kind, that made my blood a little warmer and my cheeks a little flushed and took my mind far above the clouds, without making my lose all control over my own body. I turned my attention back to the painting, that had mesmerized me in the first hour that I walked and admired the exhibition of an artist, that I didn’t really know; supposedly a new one on the scene, but very talented, which I could tell by myself as well.  To be completely honest, I didn’t want to come here at first. It was one of my business partners that convinced me since one of our clients invited us to come. Well, future client; it all depended on whether we could convince him tonight to sign with us. He was a photographer. Young and talented, something that everyone wanted to own before they got so popular, we’d be swarming in competition. Sylvester Stone was his artist's name, only twenty-one years old, and already achieved so much. Eliot, my partner was smooth-talking him, trying to wrap him around his finger, to sign the contract next thing tomorrow morning. Chuckling to myself I took a sip of the golden beverage in my hand, totally forgetting that I didn’t like it.  I grimaced at it, trying hard to keep a straight face, but it was just a fact I couldn’t hide; this was not the right drink for me. Whiskey and wine were my go-to. I would drink a cocktail, maybe two or three and a few shots when at a club; I mean I was only four years older than the artist we wanted to lure on board, so I still went out clubbing, although I have to admit, I was never one for that. I like to have a good conversation, without music blasting from every corner of the room and I also didn’t appreciate the ringing in my ears that was annoying me the whole way home and if it was really bad even the next morning. I groaned, looking at the glass in my hand, wishing I had similar powers to Jesus, but instead of water, I’d turning champagne into red wine. I sighed, smiled at myself, and looked at Eliot who was standing a few feet away, making visible progress with Sylvester as it seemed. He just had that charm, which made people loosen up and relax, so I just left it to him, to convince the artist that we wanted, to want us too. I was there for the paperwork, money, numbers, but mainly finding new talents. That was my thing. I loved and admired art ever since I was a kid, though I loved to paint and photograph, I was way too shy to ever show any of my work, yet supporting others, that I knew I could and wanted to. Making someone else’s dreams come true, knowing you were there from the very start, supporting them, building on them, it was a good feeling. A great one actually. It completed me and made my soul scream from happiness every time I could tell one of my artists that they had sold another piece for an unbelievable amount of money, or that they got another gig or gallery, that wanted to present their work. “Not a big fan of champagne?” I was startled by the deep voice coming from behind me, which made me jump just a little bit, making me almost spill the drink all over my dress.  Trying to steady myself I turned around to find the source of the voice, that I found was like sweet honey, dripping slowly onto my hearing buds. “Didn’t mean to scare you, but I have some wine here. Between us, I don’t like champagne ether.” I smiled, looking up at the man in front of me, almost getting an aneurysm. For little old me, that didn’t know how to talk to men, that wasn’t my best friend since high-school aka Eliot Fanning, this was a scary situation. No, let me rephrase that. It was mortifying. It’s already hard for me to form a sentence when there is a man in front of me, but when he looks like Adonis, I feel like I could faint any moment. I must admit, I was always that scared and shy in front of men, but my life pushed and molded me into the person with the mindset that I had today and I couldn’t change it anymore. At least not on my own.  I couldn’t help but get distracted from my thoughts as I watched the strand of stray black hair that was falling on his forehead, while the rest of his waves were slicked back. It made him look effortlessly good looking. Snapping out of the trance I was in, I shook my head, putting a smile on my face and reaching out for the glass of red wine. “Thank you.” The words came out as if I just ran a marathon - breathless. “Enjoy your evening.” He said with a charming smile before walking off to great one of the older ladies that came here to either buy some of the artwork or just look at the young men that surrounded them, most of them young artists, even though they were pretty much all married. “A remarkable young man, isn’t he?” I turned my head, to look at whoever the raspy voice belonged to. “I don’t really know him.” While the words were leaving the seams of my lips, I weird feeling took over my body. “But I’m sure you would like to.” He said in a playful voice. I raised my eyebrow at him, not really knowing what he meant by that. “My name is Charles.” He extended his hand politely. “Thalia,” I say while gently squeezing his hand. He gives me a warm smile before he furrows his white eyebrows. “That’s a Greek name,” he says more to himself than to me. “Thalia was the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry.” he takes a sip of his drink before he turns back to look at the crowd. “My parents loved Greek mythology, so I suppose that is where they got their inspiration.” The man hums at my response. After that, he doesn’t say anything. We both just stand there in silence, every once in a while taking a sip of our drink, while looking at the mingling people ahead. “I feel like dancing.” He says out of nowhere, making me almost choke on the liquid I was trying to swallow. “I’m 68 years old and haven’t danced in almost 30 years. Believe it or not, but it’s the little things one misses most when they get old.”  Charles turns back to me, with a look on his face that I couldn’t quite read. “But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.” His voice was filled with mischievousness. Thing is, I wanted to pretend like I didn’t understand what he was telling me, but I couldn’t. He was hitting it spot on. My life was boring as hell and I was to blame. I was afraid to take the wrong step into the future, I was afraid of what just one reckless decision could bring and although I always had the infamous question “what if?” in the back of my mind, I was always taking the safe road; or at least I did for the past 5 years or so, but it seemed no matter what I did, everything came out wrong. Standing here now, both scared and intrigued by the old man named Charles, who could read me like an open book, while speaking to me in riddles that were too easy to c***k, I started to question my own beliefs and choices that I had made. “Now where is that grandson of mine when one needs him.” Before I knew it Charles was gone, and I was back to standing alone in front of by me, for far too long admired masterpiece of artwork.