Available Darkness Season 1

glance into the gallery. Her painting had drawn him in.
    Dusk Wanderlust was a painting of a man standing beneath a tangled briar of shadows at the edge of a high bluff, a jagged crag of jutting rock above a wide sea of rolling waves beneath a violet sky churning with clouds. The man stared into the distance, and seemingly right into the depths of John. Never one for art, John would’ve kept on walking had he not felt certain that he and the man in the painting shared a secret.
    Hope was speaking with Sergei about an irritating harpy of a woman, Doris McEllny—an overbearing, far-too-chatty 50-something socialite whose money and name tore her ticket into these sorts of events. Though she acted like everyone’s best friend, her cattiness made her the first whispers on people’s lips the second she sauntered away.
    Sergei assured Hope that she’d only have to put up with people like Doris at every major event and most of the minor ones . Hope laughed—an honest sound that echoed against the gallery walls and warmed her from within. She glanced around to make sure Doris wasn’t around and spotted the man fixed in front of her painting, his head tilted in a pantomime of attempted recall.
    “Oh, he’s a cute one,” Stephan teased Hope, nudging her forward, “what are you waiting for?”
    Hope was already a mile outside her comfort zone. She turned to Stephan, laughed again and shook her head no. Something, however, compelled her feet to start moving her toward the stranger.
    At first John hadn’t noticed her.
    As she approached from behind, his head was still titled in that odd way, reminding her of a curious cat she had as a child. She noticed his dark hair, falling just past his strong looking shoulders, a bit wild, but not quite grunge. A thick black pea coat hung just right on him. His jeans were a faded, cerulean blue. His boots were black, and scuffed enough to show the miles. His clothes said blue collar, maybe even local bar band player.
    Hope had gone out with too many guys in that area code to have interest in another self-obsessed boozer. If he hadn’t turned, ever so slightly at that moment, she might have retreated.
    His face was remarkably youthful, healthy, and smooth, not at all the kind of face she expected to see, weathered by years of assorted abuses. Then there were his eyes, impossibly blue, peeking from beneath his dark thatch of hair.
    Hope’s tongue was a clumsy brick in her mouth. She wasn’t used to approaching guys. Her every first date had been initiated by the guys.
    She spoke without thinking, “This artist is a real hack, eh?” Nervous laughter hid the small dorky death inside her. What the hell was that?
    His face looked as if he were trying to think of something clever. Ah, thinking before you speak, what a novel concept . His head tilted like a quizzical cat again, then he raised a finger, pointing at her, and smiled widely.
    Such a beautiful smile.
    “Ah, you’re the artist, aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, yet strong, but also friendly. And with the slightest hint of an accent she’d never heard.
    She nodded, then blushed against another nervous laugh, might have even crossed one leg in front of the other, though she wasn’t even aware of her limbs at that moment.
    He explained how he had been walking by, saw the painting, and was mesmerized. He just had to come inside to get a closer look. They talked about her inspiration for the painting, a dream she had. They discussed her hopes of becoming a real artist and the drudgery of her day job. She rambled on about her favorite movies, books, and trashy magazines. Hope even told the stranger about the time when she was 12 and had stolen a Kit-Kat from the corner store, but felt guilty about it and tried to sneak a new candy bar back onto the shelves, only to get busted in the process.
    “Well, I can see why you got out of the thieving business,” he teased.
    Just like that, 23 minutes disappeared and the world faded around them. They were the stage’s only players, talking fast, laughing, and trading all manner of minutia, when she suddenly found herself observing the moment from within herself and thinking, I really like this guy.
    She actually thought, I could really love this guy , though she would never have admitted it at the time.
    Then, as if this handsome stranger had somehow sensed her inner dialogue, conversation paused and stretched into the first awkward silence since they’d begun speaking.
    Holy