Mac, Eric, and I walked for almost ten minutes, Eric chattering the entire way. For once, I didn't mind being mute; he was so animated, and excitable, that even if I'd still had the use of my vocal chords I wouldn't have talked much. Max was similarly silent, speaking only to mutter a curse or two when he lost his grip on Eric's paintings. I'd offered to take one, but he'd just given me an affronted look and tightened his hold on the canvases.
"He's British," Eric had muttered out of the corner of his mouth, in way of explanation. I hadn't quite understood what that had to do with letting me help out, but I wasn't about to insist and risk offending him.
After a while, I zoned out and listened more to the inflection of Eric's words than what he was actually saying. One of the few good things about being mute: people don't expect you to respond. Still, it wasn't the best decision: I was too busy watching the street to notice when Eric finally stopped and would have plowed into his back if I hadn't seen Max freeze out of the corner of my eye.
Eric nodded toward a smallish white building, topped with a large sign that blinked Clary's over and over. "It doesn't look like much, but I think you'll like it," He said, leading the way to the door. I reached around him and pulled it open, propping it open with one tennis shoe as he and Max stepped in. I followed a heartbeat behind the larger man.
Sure enough, the cafe was better on the inside than its exterior gave away. Every inch of blank wall had been covered in drawings, some drawn directly on the wood and some nailed on. Abstract, realistic, historical, pencil, chalk, paint… every possible kind of drawing, painting, and doodle was represented in the small building. A particularly risque drawing of a nude women had been made family-friendly with artfully placed napkins. The bar was dotted with sculptures, from a leering monkey to an apple so real I might have bitten into it if there hadn't been a placard beside it.
I turned to Eric, beaming, but he missed my smile as both he and Max were busy setting his work on empty spots over one of the booths. I weaved around the few people scattered around the cafe to where they stood, gazing up at Eric's pieces. Eric gave Max a high five, grinning lopsidedly at me. "What do you think?"
All five seemed to belong to the same series; they were done in shades of blue and purple, and featured scenes from around the city. A mother cradling her child beneath an arching sculpture, a blind man throwing crumbs to birds, a little girl pressing a flower to a homeless man's hand, an old woman kneeling beside a marble gravestone, and a lone guitarist playing for an empty street. They were magnificent; if I hadn't been able to see the paint on the canvas, I might have thought they were photos.
My throat tightened, and tears pricked my eyes. They're- I remembered he didn't know sign language and froze up, uncertain of how to tell him what I thought of his work. Luckily, Max was more conscientious than I'd expected from the massive man: he handed me a Sharpie and a napkin. They're beautiful. I wrote. I think they're the best pieces in here.
Eric laughed, a blush coloring his neck. "Thanks… I mean, I'm not sure about the best, per se, but-" I placed a finger over my lips, shushing him. The BEST.
At that moment, the door of the cafe opened with the tinkle of a bell. I automatically turned my head, and squeaked in horror: Sebastian and Fletcher, one in a suit and the other still in board shorts, were pushing their way into the shop. The former screwed his face into a nasty scowl and called, "Ariel?"
I squeaked again and dove behind Eric, peeking around his waist at the two. He glanced down at me and raised an eyebrow at me, trying to hide a widening smirk. "Why are you hiding… Ariel?" his eyes went huge. "Wait- Ariel Triton? The violinist?" I nodded slowly. "I think- I think I've painted you."