While She Was Sleeping... by Isabel Sharpe

left of the store which led into the foyer for the building’s upstairs residents.
    “I thought we were shopping.”
    “We are.”
    “In someone’s apartment?”
    “Why not?”
    Her frown turned into surprise when he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the security door. “You live here?”
    “Yup.”
    “We’re going to your apartment?”
    “Nope.”
    “Edgar, why are you being so mysterious?”
    He waggled his thick eyebrows, smirking at her impatience,and led the way up the worn-carpeted stairs. “All will be revealed in time.”
    “Honestly.” She followed, thumping up each step to signal her pretend displeasure, all the while brimming with excited curiosity. She’d never thought of Edgar as either mysterious or romantic. Wouldn’t that be something if he turned out to be both? The day was looking better and better after the tension with Alana over breakfast. Melanie had been late leaving the house, as usual, but hadn’t passed any cops speeding east on I94, and found a miracle parking place only a few yards from where she’d promised to meet Edgar. Good luck always needed celebrating, at very least with a good mood.
    “Here.” Edgar stopped outside the scuffed door marked 2B and rapped with the scratched knocker. A deep voice answered unintelligibly, but Edgar must have decided that was permission enough because he pushed open the door and gestured Melanie in ahead of him.
    Three steps into the apartment she could see this was the home of an extraordinary artist. All four walls were hung with bright abstract paintings, great smears of colors with black squiggly lines dancing through them; they made her feel cheerful and somber all at once. On every surface sat sculptures, thin black metal bodies contorted in various sexual pairings, some tender, some gymnastic, some nearly violent, all erotic. Simple figures, but tremendous movement and passion in each coupling.
    By the doorway to what must be a bedroom, two chairs had been set opposite each other, a board laid between them, covered with a sheet splatted here and there with gold paint. On the sheet, lovingly arranged, was jewelry.
    Melanie walked toward it, mesmerized. Was this what Edgar had in mind for Emma? Earrings, bracelets, necklaces, all in silver, her favorite, twisted in delicate spirals, looped in playful circles or zigzags, adorned here and there with gems in rich colors that caught the light spilling through one of thewindows. An artist’s eye had set them here to be displayed to their advantage.
    She hardly knew where to look first. Such talent. Such beauty. “All of this, the paintings, the sculptures, the jewelry…”
    “One guy. He’s good, huh?”
    “Good?” She turned to Edgar, overcome. “He’s a genius.”
    “I had a feeling you’d like it.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s exuberant and colorful. And sensu—beautiful. Like you.”
    “Edgar.” She smacked him on the arm to cover her pleasure and astonishment. Pleasure at his nice words, though he complimented her often even though they’d been friends for two years now—he was sweet that way. Astonishment because she figured he’d invited her along shopping this morning because he had no confidence in his taste. Given the way he dressed, Melanie would have agreed. She expected they’d hit the mall jewelry store, he’d go straight for some chunky tasteless disaster, and she’d have to steer him away from his instincts to protect poor Emma from every woman’s nightmare.
    But this…
    How could he have such an eye for beauty and leave the house looking the way he did every day? Today’s ensemble: lemon-yellow stained shirt and horrible dull green pants—don’t get her started.
    “I’ll be right out.” The deep voice originated in the rooms beyond the jewelry. “Have a look around.”
    “That’s Sledge.”
    “Sledge? As in hammer?”
    “He’s the artist. My neighbor. I live upstairs, bumped into him a couple of times and we got friendly. He’s a