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“What?” I stumble, nearly face planting on the ground. His warm hand wraps around my elbow and prevents me from eating the pavement. “You’re a drug dealer?” I hiss, yanking my arm from his hold.
He doesn’t seem at all bothered by my proclamation. “Say it a little louder for the people in the back.” He winks, lifting his coffee cup in toast. “It’s only pot. It’s harmless.”
“Wait, I thought it was legal here?”
He shakes his head. “Not for recreational use.”
“So … that’s why people are always stopping you?”
“Yup.” He pops the p and pouts his lips.
“You could get in trouble.” As if he doesn’t already know this.
“I could get in trouble for a lot of things, but rules were meant for breaking.”
“This isn’t a rule, Ansel. This is a law.”
“Worried about me?” We stop at a crosswalk and he pushes the button for the pedestrian lights.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Don’t be. But don’t tell anyone.” He narrows his eyes on me. “Snitches get stitches.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.
I shake my head, my hair swaying around my bare shoulders. I opted to wear a tank top because I know the cold weather is going to be rolling in soon. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Cool beans.”
“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you’re a weird guy.”
He winks again. “Thanks.”
We cross the street and walk a couple more blocks—I have no idea why he didn’t drive, but it is a nice day so I can’t complain—and end up in front of a modern looking brick building. There’s a sign on the left side of the front that says UMFA.
“UMFA? What’s that?”
We start across the street. “Utah Museum of Fine Arts.”
“This is your favorite place in the whole city?”
He tosses his empty coffee in a recycling can in front of the building. “Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I love drawing, painting, pottery, all of it. I think it’s about working with my hands, being able to create something from nothing except a vision in my brain.”
“Wow,” I murmur, leaning my head back to stare up at the building. I squint against the harsh sunlight.
“And here you thought I was taking you somewhere to smoke.” He shakes his head but grins at me.
I finish my boba tea and toss the empty cup in the recycling bin. “What’s that over there?” I point to a driftwood looking figure to our right, a ways over, but clearly a part of the large building.
“I’ll show you.”
I follow him over and gasp. “It’s a horse! Is it made of sticks?”
“Among other things.”
I study the sculpture, amazed by the amount of work and craftsmanship that had to go into this.
“Its name is Rex. An artist named Deborah Butterfield made him. Her pieces are awe-inspiring. I’m not much of a sculptor myself, I do better with drawing, but her pieces make me want to get better at it.”
