Page 22 of Burning Daylight
“I put condoms in your purse, FYI!” she calls out,waytoo loud.
A man in a suit looks at me appalled, like I’m about to choose someone to fuck in front of him.
I grin and roll my eyes. “Some people, right? Never met that woman in my life.”
Then I keep walking until I hit the farthest wall and stop in front of the nearest painting.
My professor in an art history course I took sophomore year talked about the importance of different mediums. How he could go to a museum for hours and just stare at a singular piece hung up, losing himself to the way it made him feel. Back then, I never understood what he meant. Honestly, I figured it was him talking out of his ass, trying to give a deeper meaning to something that was just paint on a canvas.
But now… I marvel at the art, wondering how it’s possible to create such intricate designs from a can of spray paint, and while I walk along to look at the different pieces, it feels like an itch being scratched in my brain.
It isn’t until I physically bump into a girl from one of my college classes that I recognize I’ve been wandering in a daze.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Amanda, right?”
She tilts her head, her bleached-blond hair falling effortlessly over her left shoulder before she says in a clipped tone, “That’s right.”
Her cold demeanor throws me off, but I’m nothing if not adaptable. I was born and bred to shine and sparkle in uncomfortable situations.
“Juliette.” I point to myself.
She looks me up and down and then scrunches her nose as if I don’t quite measure up.
“I think we had poli-sci together.” I try again. “Are you a fan of the artist or just art in general?”
She takes a sip of her champagne. “My summer art foundations course is offering extra credit if we attend shows around the city.”
Her eyes float from me to the framed slab of concrete in the middle of the room.
I turn back to the piece. There’s a small child on her knees at the base of concrete steps that lead to a large building with the wordHealthacross its top. Money and pill bottles are falling from the sky, but as they float closer to the girl, they catch fire until there’s nothing but ash and soot surrounding her on the ground.
The letters RMO are signed in the corner in all black, with sharp edges and overexaggerated lines. “What’s RMO stand for?”
Amanda sighs. “It’s obviously a signature.”
“Ah, that’s right. An anonymous painter.” I wiggle my brows conspiratorially.
“People call him Romeo. Because of the ‘passion in the work.’” She says it like it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
“You disagree?”
“I think people like to see romanticism in even the most…pedestrian pieces. This is his first official art show, anyway; normally, people just find his stuff on the sides of buildings randomly. I don’t know that we should encourage that type of illegal activity by giving them platforms.”
“Hmm.” I nod along. “Even if they send a message?”
That’s clearly what this mural is doing. It’s intricate and hauntingly beautiful.
I’ve never experienced anything like what’s depicted, so it’s hard to relate to personally, but it still makes the center of my chest feel tight. I tilt my head as I look at the art again.
“I think it’s poetic,” I declare, bringing up my glass for another sip of bubbly.
“Some people can see poetry in anything, I guess.”
My heart stutters, and I choke on the champagne, coughing until my eyes sting.
That is not Amanda’s voice.
It’s low and rough, and threaded with dark amusement.
