Page 2 of A Virgo's Muse
“It doesn’t speak,” I whispered slowly. “It screams.”
He watched me. His mouth didn’t move, but I felt the approval in his silence.
“You made this?” I asked.
He nodded once. “Didn’t sign it.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t need to.”
There was a pause between us. It was thick and warm, like summer heat before a storm.
“Desire,” I said, offering my hand.
He didn’t take it.
“Onyx.”
The name hit different—heavy, elemental, like something forged, not given.
His eyes were locked on me, roaming from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. He didn’t look away. He didn’t break eye contact once.
“I know your work,” he said. “You painted that piece,House of Mirrors. The one with the woman breaking apart without showing her face. That was you.”
I blinked in surprise. “No one ever brings that one up.”
“Most people look at art to be impressed. I look at it to be undone.”
I should’ve walked away. I should’ve nodded politely, gone back to sipping champagne, and pretended to be functional. But I didn’t. Because something about him didn’t feel like a stranger.
He felt like the part of myself I couldn’t reach. The mess beneath the surface I’d been too scared to paint.
“You don’t paint anymore,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence that fell between us. I paused.
“No,” I admitted. “I don’t.”
“You will,” he said, calm and certain. “When you paint me.”
Then he turned and walked away like he didn’t just drop a grenade at my feet and light the fuse with his mouth.
I watched him disappear into the crowd. My heart was beating louder than the bass vibrating through the floor. And for the first time in months… I felt something.
He disappeared before I could even stop him. I stood there surrounded by strangers, smoke, and dim gold lighting still tasting the weight of his words.
“You will. When you paint me.”
Who even says that?
I didn’t know if I wanted to scream, laugh, or chase after him. Instead, I inhaled then released a shaky breath, turning back toward the sculpture—the twisted metal man bent and burdened, frozen in pain. It stared back at me like it knew I was pretending.
This piece, this man… they both undid something I was trying real hard to keep taped together.
I floated through the rest of the night. Smiled here. Sipped champagne there. Laughed when Sade pulled me into a conversation with some finance guy who thought, “Art is cool if it has, like, a message.” I didn’t even correct him. My mind was still locked in that moment… that voice… those eyes.
By the time we left, it was after 1:00 a.m. The air outside was warm and wet. I rolled the window down just to feel something real. The breeze kissed my skin, but it didn’t clear my head.
Back in my apartment, I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and kicked off my heels. My dress slid off with a whisper forgotten in a puddle of silk by the couch. I headed straight to the bathroom to rinse off the night and twist my curls into a loose pineapple before crawling into bed with nothing but my oversized tee and the low hum of the city below my window. But I couldn’t sleep.
