Matis

Matis handed the wrench to his mother and returned to his phone, endlessly scrolling through his social media, wishing he was anywhere but in the garage with her. Tara, the girl he'd met in his History of Western Art class, had just posted a very suggestive selfie, one far more suggestive than her usual fare (as far as he could tell through his quick perusal of her public profile. Was it for him? She'd been the one to add him, not the other way around. Maybe it was bait.

Bait he'd gladly take.

If he could ever get his ass out of this garage, that was. It had been a long while since his mother stopped complaining about him not 'taking up the trade', but she still insisted in him helping her out every once and a while. Yes, he understood some of the basics about fixing cars, he could change oil, plug a leak, change a belt, but if he was going to spend his life getting his hands dirty, he wanted the oil to be paint. Matis saw the world differently than his mother. Colour, texture, shape, it all spoke to him, and he wanted to speak back. He was going to make something of himself.

But oil painting was an expensive medium. What paid his bills was his webcomic, Trikers. Well, maybe 'paid the bills' was a bit generous. The ad revenue was enough to buy his pot, and put some mad-money in his pocket. If Matis had to pay rent, if he hadn't been able to live at home, he'd probably have to find a more steady source of income. Maybe he'd have to take up his mother's offer of work in the garage.

His mother looked up from the engine and stared at the car she was working on for a moment, an odd look on her face. She paused, as if lost in thought, as if confused. He was going to say something, but then she refocussed and returned to her work.

"Here," she told him, handing the wrench back, "Can you pass me the 3/8 socket?"

Matis returned the wrench to its spot, then placed the socket in her outstretched hand. It wouldn't be hard to work for his mother. He was a good assistant, and he was smart enough to learn, but working for her would be like admitting that he was a failure as an artist, even before he gave it a try. It would be giving up on a dream.

"Matis," his mother's voice sounded from under the hood, "Do you still spend time with that Phil guy?"

"Sometimes," Matis answered, wondering why she was bringing him up.

"Why don't you invite him to dinner tonight," she said, a confused tone in her voice, "I think it would be good to have some company."

"Sure," he responded, "Kinda random, but sure."

She didn't answer, but instead worked away silently on the car. Super weird. His mother wasn't the type to invite his friends over, especially Phil, who even Matis had to admit was a bit of a perv. How many times had Matis caught Phil ogling Matis' mother? Too many. But if she wanted him for dinner, Matis would send the invitation. Grabbing his phone, he texted his old friend.

Dinner tonight at my place? he sent.

A few second laters he got the response.

Yes!