Chapter 4
Day sleeping can be unsettling. Waking up in a dark room with light peeking in around the curtains throws me off every time.
I have no idea what time it is. In fact, I’m not even sure what day it is. I roll over and open one eye to look at the clock. It’s still early, and a creative buzz pushes me out of bed.
Today I’m trading a few hours of sleep for time at the Seattle Glass Blowing Studio. I love it there, it’s a place of healing and new beginnings. At SGB, I can throw myself into making something beautiful and escape reality, if only for a short time.
I roll out of bed and grab my phone to play some music while I shower. In the bathroom, I stop in front of the mirror and narrow my eyes at the chronically tired version of myself. A woman I scarcely recognize stares back at me with crazy tangled jet-black hair and bags under her eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my youth?” I ask out loud, but I know the answer. I work too damn many hours and don’t have enough fun.
I could use a vacation somewhere warm where I can soak up the sun on a sandy beach and relax. I turn on the water, strip down, and step into the hot shower. I tap my foot to the beat of the music and swivel my hips while I wash my hair.
I rarely go anywhere without music except work, and even then, when it’s slow, I sneak in my ear buds while I’m charting or observing a sleeping patient.
Marcus sleeping.
There he is again, invading my thoughts. Am I ever going to get this guy off my mind?
After my shower, I see a slight improvement. I have color on my cheeks from the hot water, and my hair is untangled and smooth.
When I’m dry and my challenging hair has been flat ironed and braided, I dress in old jeans and a tank top, layering a navy-blue UW sweatshirt over the top. I have to layer when I go to SGB. It’s roasting hot in that place, but it's fall outside and the lower temperatures mean it’s time to bundle up.
I pull on my boots as I scan the room for my purse. Where is my damn purse? I don’t know how I manage to lose a fifty-pound purse, which is a borderline suitcase, so often.
There it is on the floor by the front door, right where I left it. I heave it over my shoulder and pull the hood up on my sweatshirt before I step outside.
The wind is chilly today. I hate saying goodbye to my favorite season. I’m going to miss the freedom of summer attire, playing outside with my sister’s kids, and eating barbecued ribs in her backyard.
I live above several small shops including a bakery and a clothing boutique. I fell in love with my apartment when I got my first whiff of the heavenly smells that drift up through the ventilation system. Being a homebody, for the most part, I wanted a place that felt warm and welcoming. You can’t get much more welcoming than the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries.
I scan the street up one side and down the other for strangers before I spot my red Volvo S60 across the street. I make decent money, I own my apartment, all of my student loans are paid off, and I live well beneath my means, so I spoil myself with a great car or, more importantly, a safe car.
I have trust issues. My social life consists of occasionally going out with a very select group of friends. Being safe is monumental to me, hence the safe car. The idea of breaking down and being stranded on the side of the road, alone and vulnerable, is unthinkable. New car, regular servicing, and new tires more often than necessary keep that particular fear at bay.
I pull into the side parking lot at SGB and jog down the sidewalk to keep warm until I reach the entrance. The smell of burning leaves hangs in the crisp air. If it weren’t so chilly, I’d stay outside and breathe it in for a while.
Inside I pass through the lobby and swing open the door to the sweltering hot studio. My old friend Dax is working on another vase. I swear he’s made a million of them. Several people are scattered around the studio working on their projects that are all in different stages of completion.
He turns when he hears the door. Beads of sweat cover his bald head and slide down his thick muscular neck before disappearing into his shirt. He holds a steel rod with hot gooey glass against the anvil twirling and molding it into his latest creation.
Dax is one of the only men in my life that I trust. I’ve known him for going on six years. He was careful with me when I started coming here. It was like he knew I needed this hobby to escape something that was haunting me, and he was right.
He kept his distance for almost a year. He only spoke to me if I asked him a question. He gave me a wide berth when we worked on a project together, and he never touched me. When he finally felt he had gained my trust, he taught me all he knew about glass blowing.
“Hey, Imani, long time no see.”
“Hey, Dax, nice vase.”
“Practice makes perfect, eh?” He shrugs his broad shoulders.
“Well, your vases should be flawless by now. You must give your wife flowers every day.”
“Nah, she puts them all away. I think she’s sick of me, too.”
“Maybe you should branch out, make a candy dish or something.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll stick to what I know.”
“Suit yourself.” I shed my sweatshirt and grab a steel rod. Gathering molten glass from the first oven, my vision becomes clear in my mind.
Inspiration hit me when I saw a picture of Marcus’s nightclub in Miami. The trendy décor was fabulous. The wild colors and tropical ambiance made me think of a sea urchin with an explosion of colors bursting out in all directions.
I go to work turning the glass onto the steel rod like caramel onto an apple, and my mind wanders to where it always does lately.
I wonder what he’s like when he’s awake. What does he do for fun? Is he even capable of having fun? The pictures I saw online portray a stuffy grouchy man who is all work and no play.
I wonder what he’s into? Extreme sports, travel, kinky sex? His favorite food is probably Italian since that’s what his restaurants are known for.
Before I saw his pictures this morning, I might have been able to imagine Marcus as a kind, loving man. I did, in fact. But now that I’ve had a look at the man behind the eyelids. I’m pretty sure his personality is as chiseled and hard as his body.
Part of me wants him to wake up so I can find out. But another tiny, selfish part enjoys the mystery and intrigue of the sleeping Marcus Castillo.
It’s nice to admire him without blood rushing through my veins at a million miles an hour. Or blushing so hard it looks like I’ve spent the day at the beach getting sunburned. He is as gorgeous as he is intimidating, and I don’t do well with either.
I carry my glass to the marker and begin shaping the molten glass. I repeat the process with every color until I’ve formed the glass into an enormous, beautiful hollow globe with spikes of every color of the rainbow spiraling out in all directions.
I step back and admire my work. I can imagine it hanging in the lobby of Dominus in Miami. Dax looks at me with wide eyes and sets his vase aside.
“Holy hell, Imani, that thing’s a monster! It’s gorgeous, though. I’ve never seen you make anything like that before!”
“Yeah, inspiration hit me this week.” Six feet and four inches of inspiration named Marcus Castillo, to be exact.
I place the light into the anneal to cool overnight. Overnight… shit, I need to get out of here so I can get home and shower before work. Dax gives me a little wave as I’m cleaning up.