My smile disappears faster than free donuts at a police station.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” I shut my cell phone down.
Tessa points to the window behind me. “I saw the reflection of her photo in the window behind you. I saw it yesterday too. And the day before that…”
I cut her off. “Stop talking.”
Amused, she titters before returning to her desk. She’s such a smart ass. I wouldn’t have hired her as my secretary otherwise.
Next week can’t come soon enough; I’m ecstatic knowing I’m seeing Sapphire again. I need my Sapphire fix. My weekly dose of sunshine.
I plan to stretch those visits out for as long as I can and savor every minute of each one.
One venue a week, just enough to keep her close without her realizing I can’t stay away.
She’ll probably hate me for it in the end… but I’ll take my chances because, for now, I need her light; she makes the dark feel less heavy.
11
SAPPHIRE
With only the occasional mumble and shuffle of dull footsteps, I’m enjoying the calm and quiet of my surroundings in a moment of deep serenity.
Every time there’s a new exhibition, I make it a point to visit the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art just to be and soak in the culture. It’s my favorite place because it’s where my mom and dad would save up to take me as a treat when I was a little girl, and it was the highlight of my year. It still is.
As cherished memories of my past flood my mind, I examine the painting on the wall, captivated by every tiny detail. From the delicate brush strokes forming the spiderweb-like strands of the woman’s hair in the painting to the heavier splashes of color around the edges, there’s a striking contrast between the softness of the woman’s eyes in the portrait and the darkness of the background, as if she’s stepping out of the shadows and into the light.
A stranger sidles up beside me and stands in silence, just looking. Taking in the beauty of the painting entitledNow You See Me.
A man beside me points out our similarities in a low mumble. “She looks like you.”
“That’s only because she has multicolored hair.” The interwoven pastel-shaded strands of her hair look like they are dancing in the air, as if she’s walking into the wind.
I turn to greet the man beside me and try hard not to roll my eyes as I’m met with the side profile of Eli Hart. I’m mad at myself for not recognizing his voice.
I’ve lived in San Francisco for years without ever running into Elijah Hart, and suddenly he’s everywhere. It’s also the first Sunday I’ve had off in weeks, and if he ruins it, I might punch him in the nose. But I won’t do that because it would mess up his handsome face, one I’ve spent too many hours imagining in my mind for too many nights. “Are you following me?” I ask, annoyed that his grouchy ass is ruining my moment with a painting that has now become my all-time favorite.
“I had a ticket for this exhibition booked months ago. It just so happens to be for the same day you’re here.”
I believe in coincidences and that everything happens for a reason, but I really don’t want his stars to align with mine today: he can be a joy thief at times. I can already feel my crown chakra becoming disconnected, the mental fog moving in that sends me off balance. I hate myself for it, but I’m also secretly loving him being here too.
When he’s around, he plays havoc with my sacral chakra, which makes heat spread through the space between my navel and pelvis. I wish he didn’t have this effect on me, but it’s something I don’t seem to have any control over.
“But Endee Desree uses color, a lot of it, and you like gray,” I state a little too harshly, almost rude, the word “gray” slipping out of my mouth like it disgusts me.
He remains facing forward before finally admitting, “Endee Desree is one of my favorite artists.”
I scoff. “You like Endee Desree?” No way.
“I do.” He’s so matter-of-fact, proper, stern… rigid. The man has excellent posture, and I hate myself for noticing that. He’s also irritating, stone-faced, detached, yet easy on the eyes, and… smokin’ hot. He’s a work of art himself. “Huh.” That’s all I can think to reply, and I return my attention to the painting again.
Together, we stand, side by side, just gazing, lost in comfortable silence.
As the minutes pass, I try not to let him distract me or zone out in his presence, rubbing the rose quartz crystal in my pocket to promote inner peace and calm. Maybe I should suggest Eli carry a sunstone to bring more light and playful energy into his world. He needs it more than anyone I know. However, a bucket full may not cut it.
The longer I stare at the woman in the painting, the more elaborate details strike me: the way her lips are slightly parted and the reflection of a man in her pupils.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper softly, almost afraid to ruin the moment.