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I am, I realize. I am going to talk about it.
I so am.
It might be foolish to tell him everything, this stranger I know nothing about. Whose name I don’t even know. Or where he comes from, except that he’s not from here. And that I’d only seen him for the first time probably an hour ago at the party.
But he’s also the very first man to ask me things.
So I have to tell him.
I have no other choice.
“It’s a long story,” I warn him with raised eyebrows.
He watches me. “Yeah, in my experience, it usually is.”
I frown. “What?”
He shifts on his feet, his chest moving on another sigh. “I’ve got a sister your age,” he tells me. “She has a habit of telling long stories too, so…”
Trailing off, he looks away from me again and peruses the area. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he begins to walk.
To the other side of the empty road we’re standing on.
Not only that, when he reaches it, he lowers his large body onto the curb.
His long, muscular legs fold at the knees, his arms settling on them and his hands steepling together in the middle, his big silver watch gleaming in the dark.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
He’s watching me from his spot on the curb and God, he doesn’t even have to tilt his neck up to look at me. It’s as if it doesn’t matter if he’s standing or sitting down, he’ll always be taller and larger than me.
“Sitting down,” he replies.
“Why?”
“Because it’s a long story and as I said, I’ve got experience in listening to them.”
“Because you’ve got a sister my age,” I repeat his earlier words and realize that it’s the first personal thing he’s divulged to me.
“Yes.”
And then I have to ask him, “Is that why you stopped to check on me? Because I sort of remind you of your little sister?”
The thought is unpalatable to me.
Extremely.
In fact, it’s so unpalatable that I almost grimace. I don’t want him to think of me as his little sister or something. I’m not sure why but I don’t.
Not at all.
“If she were in trouble,” he says, “I’d hate to think of someone not checking on her if they could.” Then, “Although she knows better than to break her curfew. So no.”
“No what?”
He lets a beat pass where he keeps his eyes of still indeterminate color on me before he replies, “No, you don’t remind me of my little sister.”
I smile.
No, I beam and I can’t help but tease him a little. “Why, is she scared of you? Because you’re such a scary big brother.”
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
Chuckling, I reply, “Well then, you’re right. I can’t possibly remind you of your little sister because I’m not scared of you at all.”
His eyes turn dark, which is a feat. Because his eyes were already super dark looking in the night. But now they have turned darker than earlier and before he comes back with a response, I interrupt him. “Do you have any more siblings? I’m an only child so I don’t really know how it feels to have siblings. It must be so great to have like, by default, lifelong friends. I’m…”
I trail off when he throws me a flat look with his dark-going-darker eyes. I tuck the loosened strands of my hair behind my ear. “Right. My story.”
“Yeah. Your story.” He jerks his chin up. “Before I change my mind.”
My eyes go wide and I hasten to take a seat myself, directly opposite him. Because I’m not letting him change his mind now. He asked me for my story and he’s getting it.
I fold my legs and thread my fingers in my lap. I try to think about where to begin or even how.
But then I decide that I’ll begin with the most natural thing about me: “So the first thing you need to know about my story is that I’m an artist.”
“You’re an artist,” he says in a calm, non-disgusted tone.
Something that’s a very rare reaction to what I’ve said.
And his calmness, his utter lack of objection, is what gives me the strength to go on.
“Yes. I’m an artist.” I grin because I always feel happy and elated when I think about my art. “I love to draw. I live to draw actually. I’m not sure where my love for the arts comes from. Because as you know my dad’s a lawyer and my mom organizes all the charity events and whatnot. But I think I get my love for painting from my great-grandmother on my dad’s side, Bertha. She was an artist. I’ve heard so many stories about her, you know? How she would shut herself in her room and spend her entire day drawing and painting. How nothing held her interest except her urge to draw. Everyone hated her though. They all thought she was wasting her life and that she was crazy. My mom compares me to Bertha a lot. At least when my dad isn’t around. She’d never say anything against my dad’s family in front of him though. But anyway, I think Bertha was extremely cool. I even look like her. Sometimes I think we might even be soulmates.”
