Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Yeah, of course.” She plucked her cigar from the ashtray and took a hard drag before getting up again. She returned moments later with a large black bound book. She placed it on her lap, somewhat between them, and opened it up to the first page. There was a lovely black and white photograph of her, front and center, with her extensive resume next to it. After he read it, she turned the page, and another… and another. His chest warmed at the sight of the exploding colors in some of her work. Her realistic renderings looked like wet photographs. He felt as if he could reach out and touch real flesh and bone.
“You’re amazing. Damn.” He pulled the book closer to him, taking over the page-turning.
“Thank you.”
They were quiet as he perused her work, not needing explanations or commentary. The music. The smoke. The vibe. The wine. He was enough. She was enough. Everything was enough.
“Can you play that Sabrina Claudio track again?” he asked.
“‘Tell Me?’”
“Yeah. That song.”
He studied a sketch of a cornfield. It was crude, wonderfully done, but not as polished as some of her other work. He wondered if she’d drawn it in her early years.
She told Alexa to play ‘Tell Me’ for him. She then kicked her feet up onto the table, one over the other with the anklets jingling, and leaned her elegant neck back, closing those beautiful dark eyes of hers.
He bobbed his head to the music while falling faster, deeper in love with her with each page flipped. Women dressed in bright shades of pink, donning old-fashioned church hats and waving fans while sitting on church pews… An old man walking in the desert, holding a tattered flag. There were drawings of babies and teenagers hanging around cars. Big city buildings with brown and beige people floating down crowded streets. He could almost hear the music playing and smell the summer air. The scenes were alive. Breathing, living works of art. She used no computer or software. This was all by hand.
He landed on a self-portrait of her—so well done. His heart broke into a million pieces upon seeing her standing on a bed, head hung low, tears streaming from her eyes, arms out, wrists slit. Blood dripping.
Without questioning and provocation, she offered an explanation.
“I was broken back then. In high school.” She offered a tilted smile.
“Why would you say you were broken back then?” Alarm bells rang in his head. Mrs. Florence, why in the hell would you send me someone who tried to off herself? What kind of shit is this?!
“I didn’t fit in back then. I was a black square peg in a white circular hole.” She pointed to the picture, looking quite proud of it, as if staring at her battle scars. “I just wanted the world around me to be quiet, Caspian. I didn’t really want to die, but I wanted all the pressure and alienation to stop. I slit my wrists.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t ’cause of my daddy. Not my mama. Just life. Thankfully, the cuts weren’t terribly deep and my mama found me before I lost consciousness. Off to the hospital I went.”
He glanced at her wrists and saw a slight scar on each one, almost imperceptible. “See?” She turned her hands to show him the spot. “They’re all healed. It’s okay.” She shook her head as if feeling sorry for him for looking so concerned. “It’s behind me now.”
He turned away, his stomach roiling, but then he risked another look at the graphic picture and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was still in love.
It was too late.
“Why are you standin’ on the bed in this picture?”
“Because I was standin’ on my bed when I did it.”
“…But why? That’s a strange way to do it.”
“Martyrism… a way of sayin’, ‘I’ll show y’all.’ See, I wanted to fall back onto it, like a snow angel. Everything was real dramatic for me way back then. A spectacle. My bed served as a coffin. I was comfortable there. Make your bed and lie in it, sort of thing.” She spoke so effortlessly, so matter-of-factly.
Suicide was the one topic he had trouble not reacting to. When he fell deep into dark places, he used to question himself. Wonder about his own sanity. It took a long time for him to accept himself. It stood to reason that depression was hereditary. Was he attracting what he most feared and loved, all in one?
“This upsets you, doesn’t it?” she asked in a surprised but gentle tone.
He stared at this beautiful woman wearing deep burgundy lipstick that did not smear on her teeth, and barely on the rim of her wine glass. She smelled like Burberry Her Eau de Parfum and coconut, and every inch of her was fucking delicious. She was wise. Funny. In control of herself and yet, comfortable with such a horrible thing… She wore it like a brand-new fur coat. This revelation made her suddenly flawed in his eyes—still, he found himself even more attracted to her now.