Stolen
She runs back into the bar, heels clicking against the hardwood. Seconds later the revolving door spits her back out, one hand clutching a fresh cigarette, the other a bulky grey sweatshirt.
She smiles at him, she thinks of how easy it is to smile when she's with him. She doesn't even realize that she is constantly trying to make him smile just as much.
And thus the reason for the painting in her right hand. The gold metal framing rubs against the inside of her thumb and forefinger as she clutches it for the next two blocks.
"I stole the painting," she says. She's between laughs and short of breath, she looks like a little kid.
He stops to look at her. It's the timid smile before the big, flashy grin. It's the look on his face as it registers. He makes her want to be a kid again, want to do reckless things, all to see that. She'd spend her whole life doing whatever it took for that 30 seconds.
They usually walk home. Something about the cold air and the countless number of blocks makes it seem like an adventure at 2:00am. Or maybe she's just trying to maximize her time with him before they both fall asleep in his twin size bed, before another night with him has come and gone. Tonight though, he calls a taxi. The alcohol in her brain blends the words of the conversation together like messy paints; blues and reds and greens and somewhere in there is him looking up at her in awe as she makes sarcastic remarks to the driver about the painting and yellows and oranges and a hint of pink.
The next day, the last day, she descends the spiral staircase one last time. One hand clutches her phone, the other her pair of earrings from the night before. The gold metal framing of the painting is perched against his heater. She'll leave it there for now with the intent of retrieving it months later. Maybe he'll keep it or maybe he'll discard it. Maybe he'll look at it and think of her, short of breath and laughing, cigarette between her lips, painting in her hand, barefoot. Maybe he'll smile. I hope he smiles.
She smiles at him, she thinks of how easy it is to smile when she's with him. She doesn't even realize that she is constantly trying to make him smile just as much.
And thus the reason for the painting in her right hand. The gold metal framing rubs against the inside of her thumb and forefinger as she clutches it for the next two blocks.
"I stole the painting," she says. She's between laughs and short of breath, she looks like a little kid.
He stops to look at her. It's the timid smile before the big, flashy grin. It's the look on his face as it registers. He makes her want to be a kid again, want to do reckless things, all to see that. She'd spend her whole life doing whatever it took for that 30 seconds.
They usually walk home. Something about the cold air and the countless number of blocks makes it seem like an adventure at 2:00am. Or maybe she's just trying to maximize her time with him before they both fall asleep in his twin size bed, before another night with him has come and gone. Tonight though, he calls a taxi. The alcohol in her brain blends the words of the conversation together like messy paints; blues and reds and greens and somewhere in there is him looking up at her in awe as she makes sarcastic remarks to the driver about the painting and yellows and oranges and a hint of pink.
The next day, the last day, she descends the spiral staircase one last time. One hand clutches her phone, the other her pair of earrings from the night before. The gold metal framing of the painting is perched against his heater. She'll leave it there for now with the intent of retrieving it months later. Maybe he'll keep it or maybe he'll discard it. Maybe he'll look at it and think of her, short of breath and laughing, cigarette between her lips, painting in her hand, barefoot. Maybe he'll smile. I hope he smiles.