What’s the Pointillism?

Lily watched intently as the art works went past slide by slide.

She was out of her element in this class. It counted as an elective, but only art majors ever took it. They spouted out words like “dead-color” like it was everyday language, not just to impress non-art majors. Of which there was only Lily.

Lily, on the other hand, could go “oh, pretty” and that was it.

Since the class attracted no one but art students, the professor had never stopped to explain the vocab she expected them to know it. Lily had been struggling to piece it out all semester.

“Psst.”

The head in front of her remained turned.

It had been like this all semester too. Logan always helped her in the end, but it took goading.

Maybe she was making a scene with whispering into another row, but she still hadn’t made sense of a piece that was three slides ago. She couldn’t let herself get more behind.

“Psst.”

This time she could see his shoulders stiffen, but he remained facing forwards.

“Pss-”

“What!?”

Success.

“The piece by Seurat was what?”

“Pointillism.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Pointillism. It’s made of a lot of tiny dots. Not strokes. Dots.”

He was talking to me like I was three again. That’s how all these art majors were when I couldn’t expound fluently in their language. I would like to see them try and dissect a pig like I had yesterday. I bet they were all squeamish.

Except for that one guy who was always showing off his war paintings.

“Why would anyone do that when it’s just easier to make strokes?”

I was being difficult on purpose. In reality, I had no idea. Maybe dots were easier. I’d never tried them. But Logan was being mean, and I was going to play it out.

“The effect,” Logan replied, already halfway around in his seat. It was the sign he was done helping me.

I thought I detected affection in the tone, even if it would have come across as uncaring to most.

That’s how Logan liked to talk to me when we were in art class. Always. Like he had to put distance between him and the stupid.

“Are you still coming to my room after class?”

He stiffened again. I could never tell if it was because he wanted to pay attention to the lecture or if he was embarrassed the class idiot was talking to him.

He made a noncommittal noise that was no an answer, and I kicked his seat. The sound of it reverberated around the area, but could easily be passed off as an accident when I’d gone to cross my legs or something. Logan didn’t have to turn around and glare like he did.

I smiled as bright as I could. “Room?”

“Yes. Sure. Whatever. Leave me alone.”

I glanced up at the projector screen to see an entirely new painting I couldn’t understand as the teacher talked about it. How much had I missed?

Stop messing with the boyfriend then. I could take a hint. If it happened daily.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I shouldn’t have taken this class, but then I gave Logan’s seat one more kick, stifling my giggle as he stiffened. Nah, it was worth it.

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