Page 33 of Flame
His frown, however, sends my pulse into overdrive. It isn’t guilty, like that of someone caught in a bad joke. Head cocked, he runs his fingers over the creature he’s created like a man scouring a map, hunting for where he took a wrong turn.
And it hits me like a punch—I’ve insulted him. Because, as foreign as this woman is to me, to him…
Sheisme.
“I… I mean.” My words falter, stammered, and disjointed. In the end, I wrench my gaze back to my page, grab my pen, and keep writing, shutting off the part of my brain that craves to pour over every word. Every line.
I just spill whatever comes to mind, aware of him watching me.
Eventually, he does the same, adding more detail to his drawing until the glimpses I sneak of it leave me more breathless every time. In a childish way, I could call it magic. How he crafts something from nothing. In a few masterful blends of shadow, he has a window in his hands, displaying the world as he sees it.
And what a cruel, mistrustful, mysterious, watchful, magical world it is.
Sometime during the process, I lose track of writing again and just watch him work.
“You have a gift,” I blurt out as he blends his final lines with the pad of his finger. “I mean it, Rafe. You—”
“Do the same shit a kid with a crayon would?” His voice is sufficiently harsh, but his eyes give him away. In them, I catch a hint of the vulnerability he works so hard to shield—rebellious pride for his art.
“Your vision is beautiful,” I whisper. “It’s so beautiful.”
“This is nothing.” He flips the page over, but before I can argue, he crooks a finger, beckoning me closer. “Come here.”
Curiosity mingles with the thrill inspired by his dangerous grin. Warily, I circle the counter, approaching him with increasing anticipation.
“Turn around.” He palms my hips to assist me, and then his fingers find the hem of my shirt. Slowly, he lifts it, exposing the curve of my spine to his touch. I go rigid, paralyzed by the sensation of his breaths warming the hollow between my shoulders before his fingertips land over my skin next. Carefully, he begins to trace a series of invisible designs, and my imagination goes wild.
I don’t have to see his face to picture his expression. He’ll have his eyes narrowed in concentration, his lower lip seized between his teeth. The same careful way he eyed his canvas.
“You asked me once what I’d tat on you,” he murmurs, grazing my spine with the pad of his finger. “I’ll show you.”
“When?” I’m startled by how eager I sound, but he draws back, letting my shirt fall into place.
“When you let me inside that head of yours. I’ll give you whatever you fucking want.”
“How?”
I’m left reeling as he pushes past me, lumbering down the back hallway and up the stairs. By the time I manage to follow, he’s already returning, fully dressed, wearing a pair of boots, keys in hand.
“Where are you going?” I ask as he shoulders open the door to the alley.
“I’m hungry,” he says without looking back. “In the meantime, get to work. I want this place spick and span.”
As the door closes behind him, I sense there’s more he’s left unsaid. Something to do with whatever I glimpsed as he drew, paired with his confession.
He wants to know what’s inside my head.
But how, when I barely know the answers myself?
I return to the counter where the two drawings remain. Once again, I’m taken aback at how similar the figure he etched looks to me. At the same time, she’s an enigma. I run my fingers over her features before folding the page and tucking it into my pocket.
Eventually, I return to his apartment and find my bag near the couch, my notebook still inside it. Curling up near the window, I press my pen to a fresh page.
Emulating him is harder than it should be. That abandon eludes me, his sheer, focused need to draw an alien concept. I’m left fishing for the right words, unsure of how to start.
He wanted me to show him what it’s like inside my head. In essence, it’s comparable to being a moth. One drawn to a burning, dazzling flame despite the risks.
It will gladly burn in the aftermath.
