paintbrush in hand, lights up when he sees Seema. “Hey, you’re home early.”
“Yeah, I am,” she nearly spits as she storms in, crazed, and heads right to him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I keep the door open and try to neutralize the situation. “Clearly you’re working,” I say, even though I’m not even sure he is. “We can come back.”
Scott ignores me, instead giving Seema an exasperated look. “Honey, you said you wanted me to give up the loft. If you want me to work from home, you have to be ready to see stuff like this, and not freak out.”
“Oh, I am going to freak out all right,” Seema challenges. “I am going to freak the fuck out! Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”
The model instinctively tries to cover up her privates with her hands. “I thought your wife was cool with all this,” she says to Scott as she walks over to our white chair and grabs a button-up shirt.
“Oh, I’m so not cool with all this!” Seema bellows at the model. Then she turns her anger back to Scott. “You got paint all over my hand-knotted wool rug.”
“Wait,” I say, a bit confused. “You’re mad about the mess? You’re not mad that he has a naked woman in the middle of the room?”
“I would be if he covered her in paint and let her roll all over my rug,” Seema yells, then grabs a wet rag, drops to the floor, and tries to clean up a giant red splotch in the middle of the floor. “Seriously, the rug’s black-and-white. You’re covered in red paint. What is your next piece called? Newlywed Murder ?”
I silently close the front door as the model quickly buttons up her shirt and shimmies into a pair of underwear.
“That’s it! I give up!” Scott exclaims, looking as if his head is about to explode. “You want me to give up my loft, but you don’t want me to actually do my work here. How the hell am I supposed to win, Seema? Huh?” He looks up at me, takes a millisecond to calm down, then turns to Seema to assert himself. “And by the way—I hate the sheets.”
Seema, now resembling Cinderella scrubbing the floor so she can go to the ball, looks up from the smeared mess. “What are you talking about?”
“The sheets you wanted to register for?” Scott begins, a teakettle about to blow. “I hate them. They’re beige.”
Seema stands up, ready for a fight. “They’re off-white.”
“Which means they’re beige!” Scott shouts. “And by the way, no sheet color should be called linen . You know what linen is? It’s a sheet!”
I turn to the model, now squeezing into a size-zero pair of jeans. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some,” she says nervously, and the two of us skedaddle to the kitchen to give them privacy while the fight continues.
“Are you really trying to turn a fight about your sloppiness into a fight about what we registered for?” Seema challenges.
“It’s beige! Which is brown, and I hate brown with the fire of a thousand suns!”
“Oh my God. ‘The fire of…’ Who actually says that?”
“You know I hate beige! You don’t care! You know I don’t go to Burbank! You don’t care!” Scott yells over her. “And listen, lady, if you can’t deal with the mess, maybe I should keep my loft!”
Model girl and I stare at each other in the kitchen while the living room goes dead silent. I try to lean around the doorway to see what’s going on. But before I can, I hear a door slam.
I peek through the doorway. Scott is standing by himself in the middle of the room, trying to figure out what to do next. He takes his palette and throws it down in frustration, but on a drop cloth. I see him walk over to Seema’s door. “Okay, I didn’t mean that. I’m willing to get rid of the loft. But you can’t complain when I make a mess. You’re marrying an artist. I’m not gonna change, and I’m not gonna suddenly like brown. This is who you’re marrying. For better or worse.”
Silence from the other side of the
“Yeah, I am,” she nearly spits as she storms in, crazed, and heads right to him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I keep the door open and try to neutralize the situation. “Clearly you’re working,” I say, even though I’m not even sure he is. “We can come back.”
Scott ignores me, instead giving Seema an exasperated look. “Honey, you said you wanted me to give up the loft. If you want me to work from home, you have to be ready to see stuff like this, and not freak out.”
“Oh, I am going to freak out all right,” Seema challenges. “I am going to freak the fuck out! Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”
The model instinctively tries to cover up her privates with her hands. “I thought your wife was cool with all this,” she says to Scott as she walks over to our white chair and grabs a button-up shirt.
“Oh, I’m so not cool with all this!” Seema bellows at the model. Then she turns her anger back to Scott. “You got paint all over my hand-knotted wool rug.”
“Wait,” I say, a bit confused. “You’re mad about the mess? You’re not mad that he has a naked woman in the middle of the room?”
“I would be if he covered her in paint and let her roll all over my rug,” Seema yells, then grabs a wet rag, drops to the floor, and tries to clean up a giant red splotch in the middle of the floor. “Seriously, the rug’s black-and-white. You’re covered in red paint. What is your next piece called? Newlywed Murder ?”
I silently close the front door as the model quickly buttons up her shirt and shimmies into a pair of underwear.
“That’s it! I give up!” Scott exclaims, looking as if his head is about to explode. “You want me to give up my loft, but you don’t want me to actually do my work here. How the hell am I supposed to win, Seema? Huh?” He looks up at me, takes a millisecond to calm down, then turns to Seema to assert himself. “And by the way—I hate the sheets.”
Seema, now resembling Cinderella scrubbing the floor so she can go to the ball, looks up from the smeared mess. “What are you talking about?”
“The sheets you wanted to register for?” Scott begins, a teakettle about to blow. “I hate them. They’re beige.”
Seema stands up, ready for a fight. “They’re off-white.”
“Which means they’re beige!” Scott shouts. “And by the way, no sheet color should be called linen . You know what linen is? It’s a sheet!”
I turn to the model, now squeezing into a size-zero pair of jeans. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some,” she says nervously, and the two of us skedaddle to the kitchen to give them privacy while the fight continues.
“Are you really trying to turn a fight about your sloppiness into a fight about what we registered for?” Seema challenges.
“It’s beige! Which is brown, and I hate brown with the fire of a thousand suns!”
“Oh my God. ‘The fire of…’ Who actually says that?”
“You know I hate beige! You don’t care! You know I don’t go to Burbank! You don’t care!” Scott yells over her. “And listen, lady, if you can’t deal with the mess, maybe I should keep my loft!”
Model girl and I stare at each other in the kitchen while the living room goes dead silent. I try to lean around the doorway to see what’s going on. But before I can, I hear a door slam.
I peek through the doorway. Scott is standing by himself in the middle of the room, trying to figure out what to do next. He takes his palette and throws it down in frustration, but on a drop cloth. I see him walk over to Seema’s door. “Okay, I didn’t mean that. I’m willing to get rid of the loft. But you can’t complain when I make a mess. You’re marrying an artist. I’m not gonna change, and I’m not gonna suddenly like brown. This is who you’re marrying. For better or worse.”
Silence from the other side of the
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