I am still having trouble withmy gender identity. I was also a bit scared. Meeting somebody from theInternet could be dangerous. But I've seen him on Skype and actuallytalked to him. My mind was a Picasso. I told him I'd consider it, thatI've never dated a guy before, and that I wasn't sure about it. Hecompletely understood."I know this is scary for me too. Take all the time you need," hesaid.The next morning, Marchesa and I went on our morning jogs around thecity. I had hoped maybe the fresh air, the sunlight, and a bit ofexercise would clear my mind as I woke up still dazed and confusedabout my feelings towards a guy.Marchesa and I stopped at a local juice bar on our way back to thecondo. I had been pretty aloof most of the morning and Marchesa musthave noticed."Hey sweetie are you ok?" she asked. "You seem distracted." Oh-yeah..." I said. "I'm ok. Just have a lot on my mind right now." Tell me, maybe I can help," she brightly said.I kinda sighed. "Well, someone I know asked me. All this time, I’d been insulating myself from the truth—that I was a talentless, uninspired, and garden-variety amateur. And here they were: the undeniable proofs of my mediocrity, posted like Luther’s ‘100 Theses’ on the wall.I was angry—really angry—not at Marie, not at Peter, not even at Monsieur Boucher, but entirely and apopleptically at myself. I opened my clutch for a tissue, and as I dug around inside, spotted my nail file, its tortoiseshell handle glinting in the bright, halogen light of the gallery.A ludicrous idea seized me. I gazed up at the thin steel wire that tethered the paintings in place. They bobbed in front of me, mocking me. They were the albatross around my neck, my scarlet A. I glanced over my shoulder. Peter was nowhere in sight, and mercifully, no one seemed to have noticed the little girl beside the backdoor, wrestling her little girl-sized existential meltdown.I needed those oils gone. Destroyed. Immolated. I wanted a private bonfire of vanities; to purge.
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