masterpiece

meet KAREEM SALAAM, a thirty-five year old museum curator at the CONTEXT HOUSE ART GALLERY and a five-year resident in the beautiful DRIVE neighborhood of vancouver. he is known for being honorable and inventive at the best of times, but has been called fickle and petty at the worst. 

Following the first half of his advice was easy enough, but the rest? Not so much. “If it was just about her thinking it’d been too long since I’d gone on a proper date that’d be one thing,” Naz admitted while slipping her phone back into the depths of her purse. “But it’s… more than that.” More than she was willing to openly talk about in the middle of a bar, too. Or, you know, at all. No matter how many drinks she plied herself with Nazli never, not once, slipped up and went down the road that led to all things Jake.

“You’re not wrong, though. The simplest answer would be to just say no and leave it at that.” Unfortunately, Beren was relentless. If she didn’t manage to convince her sister she was as fine as she insisted, she’d just start banging at the door. More to herself than him, she snorted under her breath at the thought, then swallowed the sound with a drink. And that was when something about the wine in her glass and the guy to her right clicked. In a complete about face, she blurted, “Wait. You work at the gallery, right?” 

Elaboration wasn’t requested. Far be it from him to pry, and if Naz wasn’t going to offer up the information freely, then he would let that part of the conversation trail and die off. It’s not as if Kareem’s own life hadn’t endured its fair share of turbulent waves. The last time he’d come close to anything serious, he had ducked out before he could make that final dive of commitment into marriage. “Well, if you are unhappy with this arrangement that she has set up, your discontentment should trump any other reason.” That’s all he could really say on that. 

With a swirl of his own wine glass, a manicured brow rose near up to his hairline at the sudden turn about in the conversation. “Yes, I am a curator over at the gallery.” Most faces in Vancouver were familiar by this point, though always placing them could be difficult. He believed that Naz lived in the same residential area as him, but her job at the vineyard didn’t click to him in the moment despite the many times he’d been there. "Why do you ask?"

There’s something to be said for the absolute delight it is to find a kindred spirit. Camille has a newfound appreciation for it as she leans back in her lounge chair, crossing her ankles as she sips her own steaming coffee. You can say what you want about living downtown, but it’s never a dull day. She squints down at the sight Kareem has highlighted, coughing out a laugh. “A rally for absolute clowns, sure. Has he really matched his atrocious cowboy boots to that horrifying bike? And his dog’s collar while he’s at it? What in the white people audacity is happening?”

The scenery of the early hours of day is great, but the company is even better. Having unfiltered conversation with Camille is always a treat as she is one of the curated few that is just as sharp-tongued as he is, and there’s never the compulsion to hold back his criticisms. Hers are equally matched, and he sets his mug down on the bar table that he had hooked up to the edge of his balcony with a hearty chuckle. “I didn’t see him unlatching a helmet, so we can guess that his brains have been scrambled a few times and that’s why he thinks it’s socially acceptable to be seen like that in broad daylight.” He picks off a piece of his chocolate croissant, eyes sweeping for another patron to pick apart. 

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“If you were gone from the city for say, I don’t know,” He pauses, as if he’s plucking a random number from the air when in truth he has a very specific one in mind, “Seven years, what’s the first thing you’d do when you got back?” 

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“This is a little awkward, but could you— could you do me a favor?” Before she could second guess herself, or the idea entirely, Naz slid her phone across the bar. “Honest opinion. Does this picture scream swipe left or swipe right?” Although she’d be the first to admit she wasn’t even sure which answer she preferred. She was (almost) certain she had no interest in dating. Just like she was (pretty) sure she didn’t want to admit her sister might be right. “I’m trying to avoid getting set up on anymore blind dates, but the only way my sister will stop is if I prove I have it handled on my own.”