(Dis)connect
Chandler, Arizona. January 14, 2012.
John
As I walls down the street, my phone rings suddenly. Securing the huge manila paper-covered canvas under my arm, I reach into the pocket of my jeans and retrieve my vibrating phone. On the screen, it says, ‘Mom’. I press the button and hold it against my ear.
"Hey, Mom." I say through the receiver. "What’s up?"
"John! Hello, dear." Mom says. "I just wanted to ask if your new girlfriend has any preferences on what she eats?" She asks happily. "Is she a vegetarian or is she on a diet? What are her allergies?"
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Mom, just cook whatever it is you already have in mind and I can assure, Morgan will eat just about anything.” I say to her.
Well, it is true. Couple of days ago, Morgan has no idea what the hell she ordered in this Thai restaurant nearby and she still ate ‘em all.
I turn on the corner, while my mom continues talking—excitedly, in fact. I think it’s because, for the first time ever, I’m finally bringing a girl home for her to meet.
She says, “Well, isn’t that just nice? I hate it when these young girls would poke around on their steaks, counting the calories on the plate. I mean, if they would just think of the hungry African kids, they would be in a much better place.”
I sigh. “Mom, it’s their lives. You don’t have to cuss them out on it. In fact, you have no right to do so.”
"I’m just saying." She grumbles. "Anyway, have I told you how excited I am that you’re finally bringing a girl home? I still can’t believe you made me wait for twenty-three years just so I could meet a girl you’re keeping yourself so busy with."
I roll my eyes again. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’ve been waiting for my girlfriend ever since I came into the world.” I finally stop walking in front of a place being renovated. I could see Morgan busily talking to two people through the huge glass windows. I find myself smiling at the sight of her. I say through the phone, “Look, Mom, I have to go. I’ll see you later, okay?”
"Yes, yes. Bye, darling." Then Mom hangs up.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and get inside the door. The bell rings and all three of them look at me, one of them smiles brightly.
"Hey!" Morgan greets me. She looks so good right now—in her white button-down blouse and black skinny jeans. Her brown hair is loose. I think she keeps it down all the time because she knows I love it that way.
I walk over to her, giving her cheek a kiss, my hand on her lower back, while the other is still holding the canvas to my side. I nod at the other two people—the guy, George, and the girl, Jill. I nod at them. “Hey, guys. Gallery’s looking great.” I say, looking around the room.
"It’s amazing, isn’t?" Morgan gushes. "Jill did the most wonderful job."
George scoffs. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause she’s the only who’s been helping you, right?”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Of course you did a kickass job, too. For, y’know, bookkeeping and all that crap.”
Jill nods. “I agree. Morgan and I don’t know anything about the accounting stuff, so we’re obviously amazed by the wonders of your job.”
George scoffs again. “Oh, quit it with the bullshitting.”
I laugh at him. George is kind and all, but he’s generally an angry person, one way or another. At first, it’s annoying. Now, after getting used to it, it’s just funny.
Jill eyes Morgan and me and she smirks. She pulls George and they go to the back office, saying, “Come on, George, you can show me how to do those accounting stuff.”
Once alone, I turn to Morgan, who grins at me. My arm slips around her waist, pulling her closer. I tell her, “So I was just talking to Mom and she’s pretty excited to meet you.”
She smiles wider. “You talked me up great to her, huh? I gotta say, I’m a little worried that you may have adjusted the truth or whatever.”
"What do you mean?"
She shrugs, her fingers playing with the button of my shirt. “You know, maybe you told her that I feed, like, five hundred kids a week or something along those lines.”
I laugh. “Nah, I told you’re a curator, not a philanthropist.”
Suddenly, Morgan looks a little nervous. “Do you think she will, you know, like me?”
Her nervousness is endearing, but not the alarming kind that results for her insomnia to kick in—those nights are over. She’s finally sleeping peacefully, without the help of her pills.
I chuckle. “You agreed to this dinner, I’m pretty sure she loves you already.”
She looks relieved, but just a little. ”If you say so.” She says.
I kiss her on the lips briefly. “It’ll be fine—great, even. My mom will adore you just for eating her potato salad or something. My dad, too, if you tell him about your semester in London—he has a thing for everything British—which is kinda weird, actually. And Shane and Ross, well, just flash them that pretty smile of yours and they’ll love you for that.”
She laughs. She asks suddenly, “What is that?”
I look down on the canvas tucked on my side and smile. “Oh, this…” I pull away from her and rest the canvas on the floor, against the wall, “…is my gift for you.”
Morgan furrows her eyebrows. “Why are you giving me a gift, John?”
"Actually, uh, you know what, scratch that. It’s not my gift, per se. I just worked on getting it here, but it’s not really from me." I say.
"Then who is it from?"
I kiss the top of her head and gently nudge her towards the canvas. “Just open it.”
She sends me a quizzical look before crouching down and pulling the manila paper open. The second she sees the upper right of the painting, she lets out a gasp. She looks up at me, grinning. “Oh, my god. You didn’t.”
"I did." I say happily. "I asked your mom to send it over."
She squeals a little in delight, and I laugh. She opens the painting fully now, leaving the scraps of paper on the floor. She stares at the painting, a wide smile still on her face.
I take the painting from the floor and look for a hook. Once I find one a few yards away, I hang it there. My arm reaches for Morgan and she walks over to me, wrapping her arm around my waist, while mine is around her shoulders. My fingers play with a lock of her hair as she rests her head against my arm. I smile at the fact that she’s so small compared to me that her head can’t even reach my shoulder.
I say, “See? The first ever painting to be hung in your gallery is your most favorite piece of artwork in the world. What could be better than that?”
She stares at the painting. With the way Morgan talks about art all the time, I get worse in remembering the names of the artwork or artists by the second (not that I’m complaining). But this one, I will never forget. Walking Down the Street by Gary Thompson. It’s the most prolific thing that will remind her of her grandfather. It practically defines Morgan. It’s forever instilled in my mind.
Morgan reaches up, tip toeing, and kisses me on the lips for a while. After over a month or two of doing this, it still catches me off guard sometimes. I figure she will always have that effect on me. Pulling away, I press a kiss on her temple instead, keeping my lips against her.
She mumbles, “I love you.”
I know Morgan is a closed book most of the time. One of the hardest things to do is to get her to talk—especially about her late grandfather. But with those three words, I always feel like she’s telling me all about how she feels. And in moments like this, that’s enough for me.
I say against her hair, inhaling the flowery scent that I always find intoxicating, “I love you, too.”
As I walls down the street, my phone rings suddenly. Securing the huge manila paper-covered canvas under my arm, I reach into the pocket of my jeans and retrieve my vibrating phone. On the screen, it says, ‘Mom’. I press the button and hold it against my ear.
"Hey, Mom." I say through the receiver. "What’s up?"
"John! Hello, dear." Mom says. "I just wanted to ask if your new girlfriend has any preferences on what she eats?" She asks happily. "Is she a vegetarian or is she on a diet? What are her allergies?"
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, Mom, just cook whatever it is you already have in mind and I can assure, Morgan will eat just about anything.” I say to her.
Well, it is true. Couple of days ago, Morgan has no idea what the hell she ordered in this Thai restaurant nearby and she still ate ‘em all.
I turn on the corner, while my mom continues talking—excitedly, in fact. I think it’s because, for the first time ever, I’m finally bringing a girl home for her to meet.
She says, “Well, isn’t that just nice? I hate it when these young girls would poke around on their steaks, counting the calories on the plate. I mean, if they would just think of the hungry African kids, they would be in a much better place.”
I sigh. “Mom, it’s their lives. You don’t have to cuss them out on it. In fact, you have no right to do so.”
"I’m just saying." She grumbles. "Anyway, have I told you how excited I am that you’re finally bringing a girl home? I still can’t believe you made me wait for twenty-three years just so I could meet a girl you’re keeping yourself so busy with."
I roll my eyes again. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’ve been waiting for my girlfriend ever since I came into the world.” I finally stop walking in front of a place being renovated. I could see Morgan busily talking to two people through the huge glass windows. I find myself smiling at the sight of her. I say through the phone, “Look, Mom, I have to go. I’ll see you later, okay?”
"Yes, yes. Bye, darling." Then Mom hangs up.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and get inside the door. The bell rings and all three of them look at me, one of them smiles brightly.
"Hey!" Morgan greets me. She looks so good right now—in her white button-down blouse and black skinny jeans. Her brown hair is loose. I think she keeps it down all the time because she knows I love it that way.
I walk over to her, giving her cheek a kiss, my hand on her lower back, while the other is still holding the canvas to my side. I nod at the other two people—the guy, George, and the girl, Jill. I nod at them. “Hey, guys. Gallery’s looking great.” I say, looking around the room.
"It’s amazing, isn’t?" Morgan gushes. "Jill did the most wonderful job."
George scoffs. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause she’s the only who’s been helping you, right?”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Of course you did a kickass job, too. For, y’know, bookkeeping and all that crap.”
Jill nods. “I agree. Morgan and I don’t know anything about the accounting stuff, so we’re obviously amazed by the wonders of your job.”
George scoffs again. “Oh, quit it with the bullshitting.”
I laugh at him. George is kind and all, but he’s generally an angry person, one way or another. At first, it’s annoying. Now, after getting used to it, it’s just funny.
Jill eyes Morgan and me and she smirks. She pulls George and they go to the back office, saying, “Come on, George, you can show me how to do those accounting stuff.”
Once alone, I turn to Morgan, who grins at me. My arm slips around her waist, pulling her closer. I tell her, “So I was just talking to Mom and she’s pretty excited to meet you.”
She smiles wider. “You talked me up great to her, huh? I gotta say, I’m a little worried that you may have adjusted the truth or whatever.”
"What do you mean?"
She shrugs, her fingers playing with the button of my shirt. “You know, maybe you told her that I feed, like, five hundred kids a week or something along those lines.”
I laugh. “Nah, I told you’re a curator, not a philanthropist.”
Suddenly, Morgan looks a little nervous. “Do you think she will, you know, like me?”
Her nervousness is endearing, but not the alarming kind that results for her insomnia to kick in—those nights are over. She’s finally sleeping peacefully, without the help of her pills.
I chuckle. “You agreed to this dinner, I’m pretty sure she loves you already.”
She looks relieved, but just a little. ”If you say so.” She says.
I kiss her on the lips briefly. “It’ll be fine—great, even. My mom will adore you just for eating her potato salad or something. My dad, too, if you tell him about your semester in London—he has a thing for everything British—which is kinda weird, actually. And Shane and Ross, well, just flash them that pretty smile of yours and they’ll love you for that.”
She laughs. She asks suddenly, “What is that?”
I look down on the canvas tucked on my side and smile. “Oh, this…” I pull away from her and rest the canvas on the floor, against the wall, “…is my gift for you.”
Morgan furrows her eyebrows. “Why are you giving me a gift, John?”
"Actually, uh, you know what, scratch that. It’s not my gift, per se. I just worked on getting it here, but it’s not really from me." I say.
"Then who is it from?"
I kiss the top of her head and gently nudge her towards the canvas. “Just open it.”
She sends me a quizzical look before crouching down and pulling the manila paper open. The second she sees the upper right of the painting, she lets out a gasp. She looks up at me, grinning. “Oh, my god. You didn’t.”
"I did." I say happily. "I asked your mom to send it over."
She squeals a little in delight, and I laugh. She opens the painting fully now, leaving the scraps of paper on the floor. She stares at the painting, a wide smile still on her face.
I take the painting from the floor and look for a hook. Once I find one a few yards away, I hang it there. My arm reaches for Morgan and she walks over to me, wrapping her arm around my waist, while mine is around her shoulders. My fingers play with a lock of her hair as she rests her head against my arm. I smile at the fact that she’s so small compared to me that her head can’t even reach my shoulder.
I say, “See? The first ever painting to be hung in your gallery is your most favorite piece of artwork in the world. What could be better than that?”
She stares at the painting. With the way Morgan talks about art all the time, I get worse in remembering the names of the artwork or artists by the second (not that I’m complaining). But this one, I will never forget. Walking Down the Street by Gary Thompson. It’s the most prolific thing that will remind her of her grandfather. It practically defines Morgan. It’s forever instilled in my mind.
Morgan reaches up, tip toeing, and kisses me on the lips for a while. After over a month or two of doing this, it still catches me off guard sometimes. I figure she will always have that effect on me. Pulling away, I press a kiss on her temple instead, keeping my lips against her.
She mumbles, “I love you.”
I know Morgan is a closed book most of the time. One of the hardest things to do is to get her to talk—especially about her late grandfather. But with those three words, I always feel like she’s telling me all about how she feels. And in moments like this, that’s enough for me.
I say against her hair, inhaling the flowery scent that I always find intoxicating, “I love you, too.”