Late Night Date Night - 4: The Properties of Ink (Patreon)

August 21, 202X, 1:07 AM

Donnel City - College District

Jerome was in way over his head.

He led Hollis along a quiet road where the street lights hadn't yet been modernized. The asphalt was dimly lit by washes of deep yellow, so different from the blue-tinged streets one block over that it almost felt almost like the color was saturating the air along with the heat.

She had almost kissed him.

One almost-kiss from Hollis was all it took to obliterate the small reserve of cool that Jerome had spent the last forty minutes cultivating. The touch of her lips and the faint taste of cheap syrup had regressed him into a nervous middle-schooler who had just become aware that girls were going to be a Major Thing.

A feverish part of him wanted to press her up against the nearest wall and actual-kiss her until she was just as delirious with arousal. He gave his head a frustrated shake, doing his best to dislodge the molten imagery that conjured. Flirting aside, she’s still coming off a rough day. Just show her a good time.

“Hope the humidity isn't going to cause problems with the ink,” he said. Ink talk. Super entertaining. He was a moron.

“Ink…” Behind him, her voice was low, as if she’d also absorbed the church-like quiet of the back streets. “That’s what you use? Not paint?”

“Right,” he said with a nod. “I mostly do single-shade prints for my street stuff. Usually black, but sometimes other colors. Would you like to see one I've already done?”

“Show me.”

He took her hand and led her towards a familiar corner, where an old warehouse offered an irresistible canvas of white-painted brick. It took three steps before he realized what he’d done. Hollis’s fingers were lax against his palm, perhaps because she’d been surprised by his gesture. He hadn't been thinking of it as a statement—he hadn't been thinking at all.

“This is…” Jerome tried to offer a frantic explanation or apology, but his mind had blanked. And then, just as he realized he was still holding onto her like an idiot, Hollis’s fingers curled around his. Such a tiny thing, but it made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

He finally raised his free hand and pointed. “This is…one of mine.” He led her onto the tiny verge between the curb and the wall, the dry grass crackling under their feet. He unslung his backpack, using it as an excuse to let go of her hand before his brain short-circuited.

Hollis stepped forward and brushed the stark square image with delicate fingers.

It was one of Jerome's favorite designs, depicting a side-view of a sturdy-looking bed. A small child in a night shirt knelt on top, looking as disheveled as the blankets, fixing his gaze toward the viewer. Black ink created the square frame and outlines, with the underlying white brick providing the fill. Beneath the bed he had carved the image’s only word in a beautiful ornate serif.

“Sleep,” Hollis read.

“It’s Little Nemo,” he explained. She turned to look at him with a wrinkled brow. “He was a comic character from a long time ago. Early twentieth century. Little Nemo in Slumberland. Every strip would depict Nemo going on incredible adventures through these…” He gestured uselessly with his hands, trying to suffuse them with a fraction of the wonder contained in the strip. “…these incredible dreamscapes.”

“Dreamscapes?”

“Right. In one strip, he visits a land made of glass, and in another he travels through a giant mushroom forest—all sorts of bizarre places—trying to reach Slumberland. But something always goes wrong, and at the end of the strip he wakes up in his ordinary bed.” Jerome gestured at his recreated version of the iconic panel.

Hollis considered the image. Her intensity when she focused…it never stopped being breathtaking. He admired her for it, appreciated that she wasn't the sort of person to offer empty nothings. Any compliments—or criticisms—would be the result of fierce scrutiny.

Obviously it also made him jumpy as hell.

“So when you added the word ‘sleep,’ you were saying, ‘dream of great things?’ Or are you telling people it's better to live in a fantasy because real life sucks?”

Jerome chuckled. “Yes.” Up went the eyebrow and his smile widened. “It’s open to interpretation,” he continued, “but I considered both those ideas. I don't mind that they're contradictory. I want the viewer to think.”

A few more seconds passed. And suddenly those incredible lips favored him with a grudging smile. “Okay, I like it. I might even be willing to refer to it as ‘street art.’ ”

“Unironically?”

Her smile lost the grudge and became whole. “Unironically.”

“You’ve made my night.” He clapped his hands over his heart to turn it into a joke, but the sentiment was true to his core.

It was starting to feel like anything was possible tonight. But he had to keep a leash on his enthusiasm before he started babbling non-stop or drooling over her. The thought made his eyes flick down to her surprisingly delicate collarbone, highlighted by the slightest sheen of sweat in the hot air. And below that lay soft perfection—

“Oh, uh…” He tore his eyes away before they could linger. He didn't want to see if she was glaring at him, so he unzipped his bag and focused on that. “…would you like to see me make one?”

“Definitely.” Her voice sounded warm. Maybe she hadn’t noticed the ogling. Or maybe she had and that’s why her voice was warm.

You wish.

Jerome busied himself with a process he’d done so often he could rely on muscle memory. First he pulled out the plastic tub containing his art.

“Sometimes I use spray cans and stencils, but mostly I use my own technique. A modified form of printmaking.” He tapped the tub. “These are the blocks I’ve been working on. They’re called ‘linocuts’ since they’re carved out of squares of linoleum.”

“Like…linoleum flooring?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Same material.”

Jerome pulled off the top and thumbed through the carved blocks separated by parchment paper. He pulled out his Sleep cut and showed it to her, tilting it so the dim yellow light picked out the carved hollows showing the reverse image.

“Each linocut is carved. I score an image into it—backwards, like in a mirror—then coat it in ink and press it against a surface. Only the uncarved portion leaves a mark.”

Hollis took the block from him and examined it closely, turning it to examine the cut grooves. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. Her lips were parted in fascination. Jerome kept going, eager to keep that look on her face.

He pulled out the tray, plastic bags, and ink. “Here, you can help by setting the block on the presser.” He tugged out the large plywood holder he had purpose-built and held it out to her.

“The presser?”

“Just what I call it.” He indicated the grooves cut into the linoleum that matched the thick rubber bands on the top and bottom of the plywood. Nodding, she quickly fixed the block onto it. He gave her a thumbs up. “Perfect.”

Jerome poured a small amount of ink into the tray and held up a roller to show her, then pressed it into the tray and begin to roll it in the ink. He pushed it forward, lifted it, then set it back down at the start and repeated the motion, each pass creating a distinct crackly noise as the tacky ink was taken up on the rubber.

“The trick is to use the correct amount to cover the block. Too little and there are gaps and faded areas. Too much and it blots out everything.”

“Kind of hypnotic,” Hollis said.

He gave a quiet, self-concious laugh, but the roller kept moving at the same deliberate pace. “It helps me get it right if I go by a rhythm.”

Jerome lifted it and quickly rolled a fresh coat of ink over the block. The way it shined reminded him of Hollis’s heat-damp skin…strange association considering Hollis was pale and this was shiny black. Pushing the odd thought away, he took the presser from her and positioned it carefully against the wall.

“Here we go.”

Jerome pushed forward, leveraging all his weight against the wood and pressing the block hard against the white-washed brick.

“The grooves in the brick…make some of it vanish.” His voice was strained with the pressure. “But I kind of like the effect.”

“Why are you putting the same picture up? Why not a different one?”

He grinned. “Repetition is a well-known technique. It can make art stick in your mind if it’s used sparingly. I’ll do this three times, and then we’ll have a two-by-two square including the original. I think it’ll look pretty cool.” He lifted the presser away and checked his handiwork. “Ha! Near perfect.” Behind him her breath of laughter floated over him like a cool breeze. “Do you want to try one?”

Hollis furrowed her brow. She picked up the roller and stared at the black surface. A shadow seemed to pass over her face, so fast he might have imagined it—except it left her eyes somehow darker. “No,” she replied a little sharply, then added more lightly, “I’ll stick to critiquing.”

“You have the right look for it. One strategically raised eyebrow could reduce an artist’s confidence to cinders.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “Or restore it. I might raise my eyebrow at a rival critic who says something negative about an artist I like.”

“Use the eyebrow for good?” he asked. In response she shrugged, but there was an undeniably playful look on her face. He laughed and went on to recoat the block. “I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “Why don’t you pick a different linocut? We’ll do one more across the street. That should finish off the ink.”

“Yes. I'm eager to see your other stuff.” Hollis crouched down next to his storage tub and lifted up the stack of blocks. She thumbed through them like she was perusing vinyl albums at a music store.

They passed the next few minutes in quiet while Jerome lost himself in the ritual movements of prepping the block and pressing it against the wall. The third image was another winner. He moved on to the fourth.

The first hint that something was wrong was her sharply indrawn breath. He had just placed the block and couldn’t immediately turn around.

“Hollis?” No answer. “Is everything okay?” He pulled the presser away early and quickly turned, ready to see a mugger storming up, or maybe one of the stray dogs that roamed the streets around the area.

Hollis was standing, staring at a linocut cradled between her forearms. Her posture was rigid in shock, and her drained complexion looked jaundiced in the light. A deep foreboding rolled through his gut. He set down the presser and took a step towards her. Her head shot up and the angry expression on her face made him freeze.

“What is this?”

“What?” He actually lifted up on his toes trying to make out which block she had grabbed, but it was canted too steeply towards her. After a moment she lowered it in a stiff, jerky motion and turned it around so he could see it.

A wave of complete bafflement crashed over him.

“I completed that a few weeks ago.”

The carving in front of him was almost entirely black. He had gone for the effect based on the subject matter. He knew from experience that the printed result was a very dark square with stark lines creating the image and text.

The central subject was a woman. Purposefully vague, she was a series of energetic lines evoking a suggestion of curved hips and a cloak. Her arms were outstretched towards a handful of figures in the foreground. They had more detail, with twisting bodies and distorted faces, their eyes rolling in terror. It had been an intentional tribute to Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Large block letters, san-serif, bracketed the picture. When printed, it would spell LADY on the top, and DARK on the bottom.

“I don’t understand,” Jerome said.

Hollis shook it at him. “What is this?” She was almost shouting. He felt like he was drowning, unable to figure out what had upset her.

“It’s Lady Dark,” he said helplessly. “That’s Donnel’s newest crime fighter. That’s what they’re calling her. She’s…pretty popular on campus.” He could hear the unappealing defensiveness in his voice. “Most of the local supers are.”

“She’s not.”

“What?”

“She’s not a crime fighter.”

“You…” Jerome felt increasingly lost. “…you know her?”

Hollis shuddered and drew in a ragged breath. She seemed like she was going to say something, but chose at the last second to snap her mouth shut and shake her head. “I just…know the type. The newspapers and super groupies act like she’s some kind of hero, but she’s not.”

Jerome nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. “Oh,” he said.

She speared her arm out, holding the linocut between her thumb and index finger like it was tainted. A part of him couldn’t help but notice that she still treated it gently. As upset as Hollis was, she was taking care not to damage his work. He quickly took it from her and placed it on the bottom of the stack.

With her hands free, Hollis hugged her arms tight about herself and stared down at the ground. She looked so vulnerable, so achingly alone, that Jerome wanted to rush over and take her in his arms, offer her the simple comfort of closeness. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t want to make it worse.

He needed to do something to ease that wounded look in her eyes. Jerome had never felt more inadequate…but he wouldn’t give up, not if he had a chance of helping her fight the black thoughts that kept pulling her down.