Pulling into the parking lot, I hang up just as I receive another message.
Mavi:
He’s in his apartment, in an oversized paint-stained shirt, the fabric slipping off one shoulder. A paintbrush is clutched in his right hand, a smear of yellow across on his cheekbone like amisplaced sunrise. He’s looking directly at the camera with a half-smile that is not for the camera at all.It’s for me.
Mavi: Painting you. Sort of. Come see?
I stare at the photo for a few beats, one clear, warm point of focus drawing me forward. “You’re so gorgeous, Doll,” I mutter. “And you want me?”
Me: On my way.
The peace he gave me last night was a drug. Submission in its totality is the only thing I never realized how much I wanted. And for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like the choices in my life are constantly beating down on me.
The only choice is... Mavi.
