WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Seven: Artists were invited to our parties
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Eight
For our first date, we had planned to go to a movie at a theatre not far from my apartment. These plans changed with a text message. In brief it read, "I’ve been called in to work. Please meet me there." The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.
I hopped into my car and drove. My car tires splashing puddles as I drove on that dull, grey day. I parked in front of a large colourful abstract mural that decorated the exterior of the café. I pushed it open and was immersed in a vibrant environment full of inspiration, full of colour. Artistically arranged paintings, sculptures, and pottery decorated the interior. The walls and booths were in muted tones meant to accent, not detract from the art. On stage, a harpist played, adding a touch of elegance
I found a table and studied the menu. Soup, sandwiches, seafood, burgers, pasta—it was the usual fare. I flipped the menu over and found a black and white photo of the café as seen from the street, and under that was a brief write-up.
“The Kitsilano Artist Collective, established in 1967—” 1967 brought to mind a bunch of long-haired, marijuana-smoking hippies. “—offers established and emerging artists an opportunity to display their work at The Starving Artist. The collectively owned café employs artists both in the kitchen and on the floor. Our future plan is to expand to include a craft boutique/art gallery. We extend an invitation to local artists and artisans to join us.” The current president, Jaron Cardew, signed the write-up. Jaron? Cardew? My Jaron Cardew? Hmm. Wow. Okay. I set the menu on the table and looked around for something else to amuse me. A short, muscular, hairy man strolled slowly, deliberately over to my booth. His bright blue eyes washed over my body. He sat at my booth and slid toward me on the bench, close, tight. He penned me against the wall, and I felt his heart racing.
“Your body.” He kissed his fingertips. “I paint you nude.”
“I’m waiting for Jaron Cardew. Do you know him?”
“Jay?” He acted like I'd just slapped him.
“Yes. We’re—.”
In his haste to vacate, he knocked his knees hard against the table.
A door at the back of the cafe opened. Jay walked out and over to us.
“My friend.” He wrapped Jay in a bear hug.
“Hello, Nilos. I see you’ve met Gwen.”
“Oh, yes, your lovely lady. I must, I must go.” Nilos left quickly.
Jay reached across the table, and I leaned toward him, offering him my hand. “He wants to paint me—nude.”
“I’m not surprised. He has fine taste in women. Would you like to see some of his work?”
I snuggled up close to Jay as he led me from painting to painting. Each captured a young, pretty woman lying on a bearskin rug or draped over a chaise lounge. He wrapped them in rich backgrounds of scarlet red, pastel pinks, and crisp, clear white. After viewing his work, I realized Nilos preferred dark chocolate goddesses. With me, he seemed willing to make an exception.
The Starving Artist held an open mic night each Friday night. For our second-month anniversary, Jay entertained the café with a poem written to honour me.
“My dear, my darling Gwen,
You found me as I found you.
Now our hearts beat as one.
Each second without you is a waste.
I long to touch you.
Hold you,
Kiss you,
I’m yours.”
I was a tad embarrassed but mainly delighted.
Lulu Bell descended upon us as we sipped our espressos. Jay stood to greet her. The flamboyant Amazon wrapped him in a warm embrace.
“How’ve you been, sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright pink lips. Then she noticed me and held me with her serene eyes. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails and made a clawing motion as she hissed. “Who’s this cupcake?”
“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my girlfriend, Gwen.”
I looked closer and noticed Lulu Bell’s Adam’s apple.
“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be messing with me, cupcake."
Lulu Bell’s dramatic, vivid geometric paintings graced the café walls. Each sported a hefty price, which admirers were overjoyed to pay, and there were many admirers.
Jay’s friends knew he would always be there for them, night or day. The phone broke the silence of the night, waking him, waking me.
“No, don’t worry. I’ll be right there. Everything will be okay.” He hung up. “Gwen, honey, I have to leave, but I’ll be home soon.” He kissed me before he left.
Where was he going? I speculated. Had Nilos been arrested for stalking? Lulu Bell for indecent exposure? My assumptions were never confirmed or denied.
Though I asked, his only reply was, “Out helping a friend.”
“This is my girlfriend, Gwen. She’s a very talented artist.” Jay told his friends.
Was it a joke? I didn’t deserve the title. Knitting wasn’t an art. I wasn’t an artist. I didn’t belong in their world. They feigned interest. Their questions bit holes in my façade.
“What are you currently working on?”
“From where do you draw your inspiration?”
“Where may I view your collection?”
“May I read your artist’s statement?” All of their questions were carefully chosen to magnify the bizarre notion that I was an artist. I didn’t belong, and they all knew it. They tolerated me—because I was Jay’s girlfriend. How long would our relationship last?
Sunday, December 14 at approximately 4:40 PM PT
The Sweater Curse
Chapter nine
My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.
photo by ldyck
I was out on a walk with my dog—on Spinnark Drive, Mayne Island—when this striking work of art made me pause. I had to capture it. I had to share it with you.Sharing my author journey...
Are you inspired by the fading of the year?
Apparently I am.
You've caught me in a swirl of pen ink and keyboard clicks. I just finished writing picture book and board book manuscripts and am continuing to work on a memoir and a story collection. I also sent 42 submissions out over a two-day period last week. [Although AI Overview advises to wait until January to send submissions, as the publishing world is in a holiday mode.] Busy. Busy. Busy. And loving every minute of it.
Don't live in the past.
Don't worry about the future.
Enjoy the present.
For in the present,
there are no problems
(written on November 15, 2025)
