Chapter 19 – The Sketch, the Strip, and the Scandal
Narrator: Noa is dragged into a bizarre meeting with a producer who saw "The Shirtless Dinner Incident" online and thinks it's a viral marketing genius. Before she knows it, she's signed up to be the assistant director of a risqué "reality-art" segment.
Reno, naturally, misunderstands everything and assumes he's now a fashion icon-slash-stripper. Things spiral into chaos during a live-streamed "avant-garde performance" at a gallery. Paint gets spilled, pants get lost, and a journalist mistakes the whole thing as a statement about gender norms in media. Meanwhile, Noa tries to keep her career—and Reno's clothes—intact.
---
Noa had dealt with weird before. She lived with weird. She occasionally fed it cereal in a wine glass and told it to stop licking the window.
But nothing could have prepared her for this meeting.
She was in a minimalist office that smelled like expensive glue and misplaced ambition. Across from her sat a man in sunglasses indoors, sipping something green from a martini glass shaped like a swan.
"You," he said, pointing with a pen that looked more like a wand, "are a viral goldmine."
Noa blinked. "I think you have the wrong intern."
He slapped a tablet on the table. On screen: *Reno in a suit. Wine glass in hand. Captioned: 'Dinner Date or Netflix Audition?'* It had over 3 million views.
"My ex-wife's dentist reposted this," the man said with awe. "She never reposts anything but soup recipes."
Noa stared. "I'm sorry. Are you offering me a job… based on *that*?"
"Assistant director. Weekly segment. Reality performance art. Edgy. Raw. Sexy. Profound. Think Banksy meets OnlyFans meets morning talk show."
She opened her mouth to say no. What came out was, "How much does it pay?"
---
When Noa returned home, she found Reno trying to iron a tank top using a frying pan and a scented candle.
"I got us a gig," she said, tossing the contract on the couch.
Reno squinted at the cover. "Is this… a modeling job? Am I finally being recognized for my body of work? Which is mostly abs?"
"Technically," she said, dropping her bag. "It's performance art."
Reno gasped. "Are we going to wear berets and scream at shadows?!"
"No. We're going to *not* get arrested. Hopefully."
---
The gallery was one of those places that looked like a converted meat freezer. Everything was white, except the things that were red on purpose. There were large canvases labeled "Untitled #46," a video loop of someone crying into soup, and a sculpture of a chair made entirely of thumb drives.
Noa tried to blend in by wearing all black and looking confused.
Reno, on the other hand, was dressed in gold lamé pants, a mesh top, and sunglasses shaped like hearts.
"This is my art armor," he explained.
"You look like a sexy disco grenade."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
---
They had barely set up the stage when the audience started arriving. Influencers. Art bloggers. One guy who claimed to be Banksy's former roommate. A camera crew set up in the corner.
Noa held a clipboard and tried to look like someone who knew what she was doing.
Reno was doing lunges.
"Tonight," the announcer said into a mic, "we present: *Unfiltered Desire: A Sketch Come to Life*."
Noa whispered, "Please don't say the title again."
A spotlight hit Reno.
He struck a pose. "Hello, beautiful people! I am Reno. I am... feelings in pants."
Someone clapped.
Someone else gasped.
Noa took a deep breath.
Then Reno grabbed a paintbrush.
"Tonight, I shall become the art."
He dipped the brush into a bucket of hot pink paint and splashed it across his chest. Then across the canvas. Then... somehow, onto the ceiling.
"This is called 'emotional weather,'" he said.
"Feels more like a tornado," Noa muttered.
---
Things escalated quickly.
Reno began spinning in slow circles, flinging paint while narrating his "inner monologue."
"Why does cereal taste like loneliness? Why are pants a suggestion?"
People were taking notes. Nodding like this was *deep*.
Then a journalist raised her hand.
"Is this a commentary on gender fluidity and capitalist expectations?"
Reno blinked. "Yes."
Noa nearly dropped her clipboard.
The journalist turned to her cameraman. "This is brilliant."
Noa mouthed, *It's not.*
---
It only got worse.
Reno slipped on his own paint and somehow did a split on the canvas. His pants tore—spectacularly.
Gasps. Applause. Someone yelled, "This is peak vulnerability!"
Noa ran over with a large sheet, trying to cover him up while whispering, "You're going viral for all the wrong reasons!"
"But also the right ones," he whispered back. "Art doesn't have boundaries."
"Your underwear has *holes*, Reno."
He struck another pose. "They represent my emotional damage."
Noa groaned.
---
After the performance, Noa found herself in a corner of the gallery, being offered a drink by a woman who introduced herself as the head of a cultural criticism podcast.
"You know," the woman said, "I haven't seen something this bold since the silent scream sculpture of 2019."
"It wasn't supposed to be bold," Noa muttered. "It was supposed to be *contained*."
The woman sipped her drink. "Sometimes, chaos is the container."
Noa stared. "Did you just tweet that?"
"Yes," she said. "You're trending, by the way."
---
By midnight, the gallery was a war zone of wine glasses, smeared paint, and someone asleep in a beanbag chair shaped like a swan.
Reno found Noa near the coat rack, looking like she was trying to teleport out of her own skin.
"So," he said, still shirtless and painted like a bad decision, "Did I elevate the vibe?"
She stared at him. "You destroyed the vibe. You vaporized it."
"Thank you," he said proudly.
"No. Not a compliment."
He grinned. "We're getting paid though, right?"
She sighed. "Technically."
He offered her a high five.
She ignored it.
Then accepted it.
Then sighed again.
---
Back at home, Reno sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping tea from a mug shaped like a butt.
"So what's next for us? Modeling? Mimes? Interpretive dance about late-stage capitalism?"
Noa dropped her face into a pillow. "Sleep. And maybe therapy."
Reno nodded. "That's fair. But if we ever need to start a cult, I think I have enough followers now."
She groaned.
He beamed.
And somewhere on the internet, another clip of Reno's chaotic performance hit a million views.
Noa didn't know whether to cry, laugh, or monetize the madness.
Maybe all three.