He places both hands on the driver’s side door, looking down at the ground then back up at me.
“Get in the car and you’ll see.”
Six
Her Kind of Art
Kai
“I’m not putting that in my mouth.”
Well, that’s the first time a woman has told me that.
But I guess the chipped black fingernail polish, occasional snort when she laughed and random intellectual facts should’ve given me the hint that this girl was not normal.
She was smart. Not just book smart either, smart in the way she viewed the world. Always seeing it from a separate point of view. I liked that about her.
She'd told me about the languages she could speak, how she has a thing for remembering lists like presidents, world capitals, dinosaurs even. Her brain was a search engine full of information.
Yet, instead of getting her Ph.D. in something like medicine, maybe becoming a doctor, she was studying music theory. That takes guts to trust in your passion and your talent to give up security over happiness.
“My Russian ancestors took offense to that.” I take a bite of the warm food, letting the flavor take me back to Nina’s home.
Warm summer evenings or cold winter nights, this was a staple at her house. I don't miss Russia, but I do miss Nina.
She's traveling now, with funds I provided. I'm not even sure where in the world she is, but wherever it is I hoped she was enjoying her time. Maybe Rome, possibly Spain, she'd always talked about Amsterdam.
After giving up her thirties to raise a teenager, she deserved it. She deserved a lot. Everything.
“If you’d tell me what was in it, I’d try it.” She crosses her arms across her chest.
“No.” I swallow my food. “Then you really won't eat it. Just trust me, Charlotte. Eat it. Don't be so picky," I push, as I place the plate in front of her.
She stares at the plate like it’s throw up, scrunching her little nose that has scattered freckles across it. It’s cute. She’s cute. I hate the fact I find her cute.
This is going to be a disaster.
Because I know that after tonight, I can't talk to her again. It's as far as this goes. I shouldn't have gone with her, but I was fascinated. I wanted to see if her steely eyes still saw the world the way I remembered.
If she still saw me the way I remembered.
Charlotte is young, naive, new to the world, and who I am would scare her.
Scar her.
I would hurt her, leave her messy.
And that's why after tonight, I won't have contact with her again.
She looks down at the food, then back up at me weighing her options before she picks it up timidly. I nod my head encouragingly, as she closes her eyes and does a quick Hail Mary that makes me smirk. Then she finally places the pastry in her mouth, taking a large bite.
She keeps her eyes closed as she chews, her pink tongue swiping her bottom lip as she does.
Chewing doesn't always do it for me, but it is right now.
“Good, isn’t it?” I find myself saying as I sit there, eyeing her like a creep.
She swallows, opens her eyes, reaching forward slowly grabbing another one to set on her plate. A sheepish grin on her face.
“Maybe,” she murmurs. “What is it?”
“Pirozhki—they are fried puff pastries that have potatoes, meat, and cabbage. This is the closest to home I can get in Chicago."
“Are you originally from Russia or were your parents just born there?”
“I’m from Russia. I moved here when I was a teenager with my aunt. I’ve been here ever since.” I neglect to mention the reasons I moved in the first place, seems a little heavy for this setting.
“So you came to Chicago to graffiti walls and eat at twenty-four hour Russian restaurants? There is more than that, spill the beans. What’s your story, Malakai? Do you have four kids and two ex-wives? A sixth toe? Third nipple? Why haven’t you done another mural in the last year?”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table as I look at her attentively.
Her black turtle neck covers her upper body delicately, showing that her bust was a little more than a handful and her stomach wasn't completely flat. Porcelain skin contrasted her hair and the slightly chipped midnight black nail polish. She had upturned eyes, with fragile features that I found elegant.
She was the kind of girl Hozier would write a song about.
Everything he writes is so in-depth. It's why I enjoy his music. I think he'd see her in a coffee shop, and fall in love with the way that she looked like every season in one person. Summer in her smile, spring in her touch, autumn in her cheeks, and winter in her eyes.
“Seems you have been keeping up with me, why don't you tell me why I haven't painted a mural in a year.” I quip, "Since you know so much, Charlotte."
She snorts, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “What do I think? I think you lost your muse. Maybe a girlfriend? The inspiration went away. Artists don't stop creating art unless art leaves them."
I flinch at her assumption. My muse? It was pain, and that hasn’t gone anywhere. I'd just gotten better at hiding it.
I’d been sketching with charcoal, messing with acrylics, but there just hadn't been anything I wanted to share with the world.
“What would you know about inspiration, Lottie? Are you an artist?”
I use the nickname as a joke, playfully saying it. This way the conversation is deflected off me.
“I want to show you something, pay, and meet me outside.”
“Wait. What?” I call, surprised by her decision. She doesn't bother answering me, just heads out the door.
The fact I’m more intrigued than annoyed is making me think there is something wrong with me. Nonetheless, I wait to pay for our food and head outside into the sharp wind as soon as I'm done.
It’s late or I suppose early, but a few people still linger in the dawn. I blow into my hands, warming them up, shocked to see the sight in front of me.
Charlotte has a pair of muffed headphones over her small ears and is knelt in front of a violin case. I believe I’m about to be serenaded in the street.
She was strange, strange enough to play music on the sidewalk at four in the morning, but as she started to pull out the black violin from her sticker-covered case, she seemed at home. Inside the case was buttons, just like the one she’d given me the first time we met.
Every movement went from strewed to graceful. She messes with her phone and hands it to me.
“Press play,” she hums.
I look down seeing the song displayed is Galway Girl. I press the button as she says, and it’s like I turned on her power button.
Radiance soaks every inch of her as she starts tapping her foot to the introduction of the song, her head bobbing up and down causing the messy waves of shoulder-length hair to fall in front of her face.
Then, she tucks the violin beneath her chin and shoulder. With a deep breath, she moves the bow across the strings producing an effortless sound.
It echoes from the strings bringing a lively tune from the instrument. It’s calm, whistling, upbeat. The song escalates and so do her movements.
Her eyes are shut tight which sends vile thoughts into my brain. Leaving me wondering if she’d look the same way, bound and twisted in a set of navy blue ropes to match her hair.