She gave me her hand again and shook it. “So then we’re friends?”

“So it seems.” I saw several thick lines of scarred flesh on her wrists.

She noticed me studying them. “Sorry. Those are my life lines.”

“Life lines?”

“It’s what people in my group call slit wrists when they’re healed. Life lines.”

I considered asking why, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. What type of people did she hang around with?

She pointed to the art gallery. “Have you already been inside?”

“Yes. I’ve checked the first level. It’s full of installations.”

Patricia grimaced. “I’ve had enough of art installations for the rest of my life.”

Wow. That was a pretty big reaction.

“In fact,” she continued, “let’s bypass the first level all together. Did you check out the other gallery levels?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then I guess we’re hanging out together?” She hooked her arm around mine as if I’d already answered yes.

“Um . . . sure.”

It took us no time to maneuver around the crowds of gawking people, climb the stairs, and enter the second level. Up there, many large screens of different shapes hung on the wall, playing spectacular works. Some viewing areas provided chairs for enthusiasts to sit in while they watched. The video art in the back showed in small dark rooms. Patricia and I went into those first, since there was less of a crowd.

“Holy cow! That scared the crap out of me.” Patricia fanned herself as we left one of the last viewings.

“Yeah. I think it’s supposed to explore the idea of death.”

“Aren’t they all doing that in some way?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You should.”

“What about the video of all the men dancing in different parts of the city? That one was about movement and space.”

“Yes, but I could easily argue that the promotion of people to get up and move is sort of a motivation for everyone to try and live as much as they can before they die.”

Alrighty.

I held in a small laugh. “Or it could be argued that you’re a bit morbid.”

“Life is morbid. I just write poems about it.”

“Now you sound like Hex.”

“I’ve been around him too long.”

We chuckled together and headed to the stairs.

“So most of your poems are about death?” I asked when the metal door slammed behind us.

“Pretty much. I write sad love poems, ones that analyze the death of love. I know all about that.” She formed her lips into a frown. “My heart is a black spot within my core. A sheet of dark paper for men to write their experiences on, crumble up, shoot into a trash can, and move on. I love, so that I can experience and write about it. That’s what my mentor told me to do. Experience love and then when you’re broken in two, write about it.”

“Hmmm. It sounds like a good plan.” I guess.

“Yeah. Until my mentor broke my heart, too.” She paused at the top of the staircase and gazed at the empty wall. Whatever she studied, it wasn’t the wall; it was some distant love between her and her mentor. With my heart newly destroyed, I understood and gave her time to reflect. I wasn’t as torn as her. I’d been ready to leave Michael for some time. When he finally presented his cheating right in front of me, there hadn’t been anything inside of me for him to break. The act just motivated me to get going faster.

After a minute, Patricia sighed. “Better yet. Let’s get a drink before we go to the third level. Do you feel like a glass of wine or something?”

I’d been consuming lots of water due to my early samplings of wine and descent into exquisite tipsiness, but Patricia’s sad state shifted my giddy mood back to semi-broken heartedness. Miami and Hex proved to be just what I needed to get over Michael. They kept my mind busy as my heart healed, but I never underestimated the quick power of alcohol whenever I was reminded of him. “I wouldn’t mind a little sip of something.”

“Do you smoke, too?” she asked.

“No. I hate cigarettes.”

“Well, I’m not talking about cigarettes. I’m talking about Mother Earth’s herb.”

“Oh. I’m not really into smoking. I’m pretty much a wine girl and that’s it, but I have no problem with keeping you company.”

“Great. Company is just what I need.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “A lot has happened this week.”

Because she seemed like she needed to talk to somebody, I asked, “What happened?”

“A whole lot, but the most important was that I lost a good friend. Her name was Brenda. She was a video artist Hex invited six months ago. I didn’t even know her before then, but once we met, we clicked instantly.”

Is Brenda the girl who died earlier today?

“When did she pass away?” I asked.

“Today. This morning, to be exact.” She slipped out a tiny metal container with a silver dragon painted on the black surface. We arrived at the double doors. She clicked the box open, once we passed people as well as rows of food trucks and parked cars. Tiny joints lay in the container. Continuing to guide me away from the people, she pulled one of the joints out, took her lighter from the side and lit it. Once we approached an empty block, she placed it between her lips. “I probably shouldn’t talk too much about Brenda. It’s not even common knowledge, but you’re working with Hex now so you’re going to be a part of the inside group.”

Tags: Kenya Wright Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net