The Next Chapter
Half past twelve and delta blues licks clashed with the shop's roasted coffee bean air. We had forgotten to eat lunch again.
I looked up from my tablet and said, simply, "I need you to make art again."
Her book closed. Dark brown eyes mined my face for details, then took a slight descent into sultry.
"Anything in particular?"
We had, once, rolled around naked on canvasses, finger painting each other. Nothing much artistic survived. I smiled at remembering that.
"It's not a euphemism, I'm serious. I need a fix."
Our code word. For when the world starts closing in and one of us needs the other to pull, and uproot. My creative tree needed a shake.
"Hmm. Okay, got some new red pigments I've been wanting to try."
She stood, sucked the last of her chai latte.
"Pick up some uzo and meet me at the house, big boy," she said, a bit above table talk level. On purpose, I knew.
I chuckled, and knew without looking that more eyes than mine followed her out the door.
The day we met we had sex behind her car outside a church's summer tent revival.
I arrived a reporter, intent on documenting the true spirit of fundamentalist mountain religion, and left a convert to her free spirit. Writer turned vagabond passenger, in a beat up old Audi, riding with sun roof open, Erasure songs cranked.
Neither of us knew why we stayed together. No, that's not right. It didn't matter that we didn't know, because we never asked. It never occurred to us to ask.
We just were.
Not sure where this is going, but I love the fact it's going. Second part tomorrow.
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