Kingdom Fall

“And that’s what made you love art?”

“Not exactly. I wasn’t impressed with Van Gogh either. I think my exact words to my parents when I saw A Starry Night in New York was a fifth grader could have done it. I think I was in the sixth grade at the time.” He laughed. “No, my love for art began with Michelangelo when I saw his sculpture of David in Florence. Now that was something. I mean in the 1400s he made that enormous sculpture with such detail using tools far more basic than we have today. I was in awe.”

“Do you prefer sculptures?” he asked.

“I love all art in all its mediums. But he’s my favorite artist, besides you,” I teased. “There is a legend he liked to draw people he didn’t like into his paintings as devils and such.” I laughed. “But I can appreciate abstract art as well. Especially those pieces that make you stare at them as if looking for shapes in the clouds as you look at the sky. I love your art too. I think it should be in a museum.” That wasn’t an exaggeration for his ego.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You were going to let me sell your art. Is that any different?”

“It’s deeply personal,” he said.

I could see that given his reaction at my show. “Is that why you bought all your art back from me?” I asked.

“I thought I could part with it. But when I saw Hans trying to buy that painting of you, I knew I couldn’t.”

“Would you consider a showing? None of it for sale, but just for people to see.”

“I don’t know,” he said, disappointing me, but I let it go.

He’d given me a gift tonight by showing me what no one else had seen. I wouldn’t push him. Though I might nudge him later. “Can I ask you what inspires your art?”

He was quiet for a moment. “At first it was something to do, and the more I did it the better I got. Then teachers would comment when they saw my doodles and tell me I was good. Then I challenged myself. Could I make something beautiful in the ugly world I lived in?”

I hated to interrupt, but I spoke before I could stop myself. “You do a lot of landscapes.”

“Everything on the outside of the school was good. I would stare out of the windows and want to be there. Free.”

I could feel the burn of tears in the back of my eyes and held them back. I was glad for the darkness so he wouldn’t see.

“You also paint people,” I said, softly. But those people in his paintings didn’t face the viewer.

“You can learn a lot about a person in their quiet moments. When they don’t know you’re watching.”

There was truth in that. I’d caught him gazing out the window a few times and there had been a longing in his expression.

“You painted me,” I said. There had been one portrait of my face. Through his eyes, I felt beautiful.

With his fingertip, he drew lines down my arm. I wasn’t sure if he knew that he was doing it.

“You are the most beautiful thing that’s ever been in my life. You’re hope to me… That maybe this messed up world isn’t as ugly as it seems.”

I was at a loss for words, choking back a sob.

“You’ve given me hope,” I began, managing not to cry. “You’ve made me believe that not all men are bad.”

“I’m not good,” he whispered.

“You are.”

He pulled me closer in his arms. I clutched him tightly. We were silent—both thinking about the future, I imagined. I couldn’t envision one without him. Eventually we fell asleep. I woke warm, but not from his arms. He’d draped a blanket over me.

“Connor,” I called. The silence roared and my heart sank. I got to my feet. “Striker?”

I ran down the stairs I had no idea what time the auction was, but my chaotic thoughts had my head spinning. I missed the button three times because of blurred vision before the door clicked open, and I ran out of the pantry like a mad woman. The sky was bright, but the apartment was empty.

When I went back to the pantry, the door to the upstairs hideaway was closed because I’d forgotten his warning about the other button. I pushed everything I could find, and the door didn’t open. Tired and frustrated because my clothes, purse, and phone were up there, I headed to the bedroom. I’d moved out a while ago, but I hoped to find the clothes he’d left there at least.

The sole item in the closet was the robe I’d worn a lot when I stayed here. I quickly put it on then checked the drawers of the furniture. In a bottom drawer, way in the back, was a bunched-up shirt. It was wrinkled and speckled with paint. Still, I put it on after I took off the robe. The shirt fell midthigh, covering my lady bits. I put the robe back on, knowing what I had to do.