Page 19 of Lotus

Puzzling.

She smelled of something sweet and pleasant, a scent I could not place. I notice she still smells that way as she closes the gap between us and sits beside me on the stoop, our shoulders lightly touching before I inch away.

We sit in silence for a prolonged beat, both mesmerized by the birds pecking at the seeds. I glance her way every few seconds, curious, but I never hold my gaze too long.

“You’re a very talented artist,” Sydney says, breaking the quiet lull. “I saw your drawings on the wall. Did you teach yourself?”

I muster up a slow nod. “Yes.”

“Impressive. I’m an artist, too… I paint, mostly. I took some classes when I was younger, but I think skill really comes down to practice and passion.”

Her eyes are boring into me—I can feel them. Hot and imploring. She wants me to respond, to give her the tiniest insight into my haunted mind.

“It’s clear you have both,” she continues. “Can I ask what you were drawing?”

At first, I want to build more walls and keep her out, just like I keep everyone out. But Sydney has a presence about her—a strange, alluring aura that compels me to pull each brick out of place, one by one, until that wall comes crumbling down.

I squeeze my knees with my palms as I piece together a reply. “It’s a comic book. I created it when I was a child,” I tell her, offering this woman a part of me, a part I’ve never shared outside of my cell. “It subdued the loneliness. It almost become a… friend.” I work up the courage to glance at her, discovering a look on her face that I cannot define.

A look of wonder, perhaps, with remnants of innate sadness. Just when I think she’s about to speak, Sydney surprises me by standing.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” she says through a smile.

I watch her jog across both yards, disappearing inside her house. A few minutes pass before she returns to me with something clutched in her hands.

Her cheeks are still stretched with a bright grin as she holds out a gift, slightly winded. “Here. I thought you might get some use out of this.”

It’s a sketchpad and a box of sharpened pencils.

I take the items from her outstretched hands, my heart rate increasing.

Excitement. Eagerness.

Gratitude.

“Might work better than the wall,” she adds with a wink.

I savor the feel of the fresh paper, a brand-new canvas, heavy in my hands. I also savor the dazzling look in her eyes.

I decide that I much prefer this one to the look I saw yesterday.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice low and thoughtful. “This is very kind of you.”

Sydney stands over me, seemingly pleased by my response. She adjusts her glasses, cocking her head slightly as she says, “You’re smart. I can tell.”

I place the pencils and sketchpad on my lap, my thighs a makeshift table. Considering her assessment, I nod. “I’m educated, yes. Informed.”

And yet, I feel so dim-witted most of the time. I don’t understand modern technology, especially the robotic devices used to communicate—the same devices I recall upon my escape, pointed at me through cracked windows, capturing video footage that I later came to discover. Gabe is always playing with his device like it’s his favorite toy.

“How did you learn?” Sydney wonders, folding her hands together. “Did you go to school?”

Stacks of books flash through my mind. Bradford brought me piles and piles of fiction novels, how-to guides, textbooks, and manuals. All I did was learn.

I’m about to respond when we are both caught off guard by an unfamiliar trespasser snapping photographs from the edge of the lawn. I rise to my feet, stepping back.

“Oh, hell no,” Sydney declares, storming over to the man with a camera. “This is private property. You’re not welcome here.”

My eyes take in the scene from the porch as Sydney rushes the man, blocking me from his view. The stranger tries to dodge her, taking more photographs.

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