Years would have gone by before he realized that his lips had grown darker than they were before. His perfume smothered by the stench of his pipe, and maybe if his girl was still here, she would have noticed his dark lips sooner, maybe even before he took the second draw out of his pipe. His figure in the mirror when he looks would be breathtaking but when he searches he wouldn’t find himself.
His girl had left him. She travelled, and it was not the kind of travel where you go see someplace new, or visit a loved one. She had gone far away to a place humans loathed, where her insanity would shield her.
She used to run shifts at the diner at the end of the street. She was a pretty girl with a brokenness. He juggled jobs on the same street, but it was not the kind he could speak about. He traded in dark corners and walked alone at nights. His only enemies were the sirens and his only companions were his white goods.
He used to watch her every night; well he used to watch her finish late from his room at the third floor. She always wore stress like a robe, and watching her became his favorite pastime until it turned into an obsession.
One night he was at a dark corner and his hands trembled as a transaction was made. His expression went blank when she passed by, she saw him shake hands with another stranger in a hoodie. Her pace hastened and she gave a nod of judgment with her gorgeous head. He couldn’t restrain himself, the thought of anyone looking down on him made his self-control vanish.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
She was suddenly alert, ready for fight or flight.
“Didn’t say I did,” she spat.
“But I want you to know me, the real me,” he said.
“Don’t feel the same way, I am sorry, ‟ she said and began walking away.
It felt like 2 am when he got on the streets. It was chilly and empty, as though a pandemic were keeping everyone away. There was something welcoming about the world at this hour. At this hour, he felt like an important person.
When he got home, he laid down on his bed staring at the dark. There was no light in his apartment and he loved the darkness. There was something outside to compete with that inside of him. He kept picturing the different broken pieces he had seen in her paintings. He couldn‟t sleep. She was strange, but who was he to complain, it was a match made in hell.
The following night he waited for a dealer but he never showed up, and this made his stomach lurch in worry. He heard later that the guy was shot dead and had been found lying in his own pool of blood on the streets. That night he felt a wave of coldness in his stuffy apartment, the feeling that he was next would never leave him. But later, when he watched his girl close from her third shift, he decided he would make her his in the world for she already belonged to him in his mind.
“I need to talk to you,” he said walking right into her.
“Jesus Christ! Are you stalking me?”
“I keep thinking of those paintings in your room. I would like to see them again. Can you show me again?”
“It is not a fucking exhibition, mister.”
“I know all about broken things,” he said in a quiet voice.
She smiled. “I can show you. My friends think I am crazy, but you might understand.”
He pondered on how easy it was. He could be a murderer and she was taking him to her home for the second time willingly. He felt the need to protect her.
“Here, come in,” she said when they arrived at her place.
She turned on the light, and apologized when he squirmed in discomfort. “What’s wrong?” she asked..
“I don’t like light.”
“You were just outside,” she said, looking at him unbelievably.
“It’s the electricity,” he said squinting at her.
“No problem, I will turn it off. I think I have a torch,” she said scattering a small closet, frantically searching for it
‘‘See, found my torch,” she said and quickly flicked the switch off.
He nodded appreciatively, and they moved to her wall. She pointed the torch to one of the paintings and for the second time he was brought into her head.
“Tell me more?” he said.
“A heart in pieces, it has been like that for years and no, it wasn‟t because of a boy. I wouldn‟t give a silly boy that much power over me.”
“Who then?” he asked, sensing her uneasiness to go further with it.
“It was my birth mother.”
He wouldn’t push further, it was too early. His only worry was the painting; it looked nothing like a shattered heart. Whatever a broken heart was supposed to look like it wasn’t that painting. He was sure of it.
“You live well with pain,” he said.
“No, maybe you only see what you want,” she replied smiling at him. How beautiful and cryptic her smile was.
“I guess it’s because you are my girl,” he said.
“You are not worried that I paint only broken things?”
“I am, but my guess is because people are broken. The world is broken.”
“No, it’s my mind that’s all messed up. Everything comes out that way because my mind is sick.”
“No it’s not, and even though it is. I have already found my girl, and she is you.”
There were a few proper date nights since she didn’t like crowds and he didn’t like electricity lights.
One night at his apartment, he and his girl were eating. She had burnt the pasta but they were eating it anyways. The television was the only source of light and it showed a picture of a pretty black woman with dyed blonde hair. She was accused of serial street murder, and her mode of operation was shooting people on the streets at odd hours and leaving them there to die. The metallic fork had dropped from his hand at the recognition. The news bearer claimed she escaped from an asylum and was living among folks like any normal person, but the public ought to be warned that she was a dangerous person. When he looked up from the television his girl had a kitchen knife raised and pointing at his heart.
“I am going to chop you into pieces like a goat. So you better not try anything stupid, now give me your phone,” she said.
He handed it over to her quickly.
“Good boy,” she said, and pointing the knife at him, she walked with her back to the door.
He had a small phone at the bottom of his suitcase; it was a business phone for dealing only. He found it and dialed the Police.
Seven months passed, and he thought he was insane for going to the window, every night, waiting for her to walk out of the diner as stressed as a dying horse. While brushing his teeth one morning, he noticed the position of his mirror was different. He didn’t know for how long it had been that way, but when he looked, there was a painting behind it. It was a painting of a heart, not broken or torn to pieces but patched up as a whole. It was entangled with wires. It still wasn’t the correct drawing of a heart, but it was complete and whole.
The city was beautiful at night, but it would never be the same without his girl.
His girl had left him. She travelled, and it was not the kind of travel where you go see someplace new, or visit a loved one. She had gone far away to a place humans loathed, where her insanity would shield her.
She used to run shifts at the diner at the end of the street. She was a pretty girl with a brokenness. He juggled jobs on the same street, but it was not the kind he could speak about. He traded in dark corners and walked alone at nights. His only enemies were the sirens and his only companions were his white goods.
He used to watch her every night; well he used to watch her finish late from his room at the third floor. She always wore stress like a robe, and watching her became his favorite pastime until it turned into an obsession.
One night he was at a dark corner and his hands trembled as a transaction was made. His expression went blank when she passed by, she saw him shake hands with another stranger in a hoodie. Her pace hastened and she gave a nod of judgment with her gorgeous head. He couldn’t restrain himself, the thought of anyone looking down on him made his self-control vanish.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
She was suddenly alert, ready for fight or flight.
“Didn’t say I did,” she spat.
“But I want you to know me, the real me,” he said.
“Don’t feel the same way, I am sorry, ‟ she said and began walking away.
Life stopped, the white powder kicked into his brain right there on the street. The poles were doing a merry go round and his knees trembled. He was losing balance, his eyes closed and specs of light floated in the darkness. His body hit the floor.
After some hours, his eyes opened and he thought he was in heaven, even though it would have been an angel’s error if he found himself in heaven. He could see one of the angeld holding his head in her hands.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“No,” he said and closed his eyes. When he opened them and still saw her face he smiled.
“You are real,” he said.
“If your head is fine, you need to leave. I have to get some rest.”
His eyes followed her as she stood. “Where am I?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“You brought me to your place?”
“Yes, and I hope it wasn’t a mistake. Now leave,” she said, her voice shaking. She was scared and she was supposed to be.
He staggered to his feet, and took his time examining the paintings in her room.
“What are all of these?” he asked.
“What? You need to leave please.”
“These strange paintings, what are they?”
“It’s obvious dude, leave my house.”
“Just tell me what these paintings mean?”
“They are items, broken pieces of items. Plastics, wine bottles, hearts, everything broken in the world,” she said.
“Weird,” he said.
After some hours, his eyes opened and he thought he was in heaven, even though it would have been an angel’s error if he found himself in heaven. He could see one of the angeld holding his head in her hands.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“No,” he said and closed his eyes. When he opened them and still saw her face he smiled.
“You are real,” he said.
“If your head is fine, you need to leave. I have to get some rest.”
His eyes followed her as she stood. “Where am I?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“You brought me to your place?”
“Yes, and I hope it wasn’t a mistake. Now leave,” she said, her voice shaking. She was scared and she was supposed to be.
He staggered to his feet, and took his time examining the paintings in her room.
“What are all of these?” he asked.
“What? You need to leave please.”
“These strange paintings, what are they?”
“It’s obvious dude, leave my house.”
“Just tell me what these paintings mean?”
“They are items, broken pieces of items. Plastics, wine bottles, hearts, everything broken in the world,” she said.
“Weird,” he said.
“Now leave,” she said.
It felt like 2 am when he got on the streets. It was chilly and empty, as though a pandemic were keeping everyone away. There was something welcoming about the world at this hour. At this hour, he felt like an important person.
When he got home, he laid down on his bed staring at the dark. There was no light in his apartment and he loved the darkness. There was something outside to compete with that inside of him. He kept picturing the different broken pieces he had seen in her paintings. He couldn‟t sleep. She was strange, but who was he to complain, it was a match made in hell.
The following night he waited for a dealer but he never showed up, and this made his stomach lurch in worry. He heard later that the guy was shot dead and had been found lying in his own pool of blood on the streets. That night he felt a wave of coldness in his stuffy apartment, the feeling that he was next would never leave him. But later, when he watched his girl close from her third shift, he decided he would make her his in the world for she already belonged to him in his mind.
“I need to talk to you,” he said walking right into her.
“Jesus Christ! Are you stalking me?”
“I keep thinking of those paintings in your room. I would like to see them again. Can you show me again?”
“It is not a fucking exhibition, mister.”
“I know all about broken things,” he said in a quiet voice.
She smiled. “I can show you. My friends think I am crazy, but you might understand.”
He pondered on how easy it was. He could be a murderer and she was taking him to her home for the second time willingly. He felt the need to protect her.
“Here, come in,” she said when they arrived at her place.
She turned on the light, and apologized when he squirmed in discomfort. “What’s wrong?” she asked..
“I don’t like light.”
“You were just outside,” she said, looking at him unbelievably.
“It’s the electricity,” he said squinting at her.
“No problem, I will turn it off. I think I have a torch,” she said scattering a small closet, frantically searching for it
‘‘See, found my torch,” she said and quickly flicked the switch off.
He nodded appreciatively, and they moved to her wall. She pointed the torch to one of the paintings and for the second time he was brought into her head.
“Tell me more?” he said.
“A heart in pieces, it has been like that for years and no, it wasn‟t because of a boy. I wouldn‟t give a silly boy that much power over me.”
“Who then?” he asked, sensing her uneasiness to go further with it.
“It was my birth mother.”
He wouldn’t push further, it was too early. His only worry was the painting; it looked nothing like a shattered heart. Whatever a broken heart was supposed to look like it wasn’t that painting. He was sure of it.
“You live well with pain,” he said.
“No, maybe you only see what you want,” she replied smiling at him. How beautiful and cryptic her smile was.
“I guess it’s because you are my girl,” he said.
“You are not worried that I paint only broken things?”
“I am, but my guess is because people are broken. The world is broken.”
“No, it’s my mind that’s all messed up. Everything comes out that way because my mind is sick.”
“No it’s not, and even though it is. I have already found my girl, and she is you.”
There were a few proper date nights since she didn’t like crowds and he didn’t like electricity lights.
One night at his apartment, he and his girl were eating. She had burnt the pasta but they were eating it anyways. The television was the only source of light and it showed a picture of a pretty black woman with dyed blonde hair. She was accused of serial street murder, and her mode of operation was shooting people on the streets at odd hours and leaving them there to die. The metallic fork had dropped from his hand at the recognition. The news bearer claimed she escaped from an asylum and was living among folks like any normal person, but the public ought to be warned that she was a dangerous person. When he looked up from the television his girl had a kitchen knife raised and pointing at his heart.
“I am going to chop you into pieces like a goat. So you better not try anything stupid, now give me your phone,” she said.
He handed it over to her quickly.
“Good boy,” she said, and pointing the knife at him, she walked with her back to the door.
He had a small phone at the bottom of his suitcase; it was a business phone for dealing only. He found it and dialed the Police.
Seven months passed, and he thought he was insane for going to the window, every night, waiting for her to walk out of the diner as stressed as a dying horse. While brushing his teeth one morning, he noticed the position of his mirror was different. He didn’t know for how long it had been that way, but when he looked, there was a painting behind it. It was a painting of a heart, not broken or torn to pieces but patched up as a whole. It was entangled with wires. It still wasn’t the correct drawing of a heart, but it was complete and whole.
The city was beautiful at night, but it would never be the same without his girl.
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