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“Don’t even.” I scoffed as if I would leave with a painting in hand.
“There’s a difference from feeling bad and being bad. I would know.” He lowered his voice, almost reassuring me.
“Have you ever stolen anything?” I asked, stepping along his side, touring the empty halls.
“Of course. Just like you.”
“I doubt you stole a box of pants.”
“No, but something still of value, something I needed to survive. When you grow up with nothing, you’ll fight to have anything. I’m sure you could relate?” He questioned me, extending a bridge for me to cross. I related, especially with the notion of growing up with nothing. I pondered my response, if it was safe to admit to him or not.
Safewas an odd word to consider, but appropriate. I looked around, comforted by the idea of walking in the dark. At home, when the fights got bad and the screaming began, I’d run to my closet and lock myself in. It was bittersweet, a feeling reminiscent of childhood, of terror and comfort. It was there in the dark, with my fingers in my ear, where I could finally feel free. I wasn't Gemma, I wasn’t anyone, I was merely in space, floating away. It was true what Alejandro said,when you grow up with nothing, you’ll fight to have anything, and for me as a child, that included a way to cope. I gathered now was no different, realizing safety was a perception rather than a guarantee. If the darkness in the closet was safe, then maybe so was The Met.
“You’re not wrong. You’ve seen Bushwick. I’m sure you could imagine.”
“Don’t need to. I’ve lived it.” He said with certainty, following me as I lead the way into an exhibit hall. “You haven’t been here for a while, but you still know your way around.”
“I do.”
“And where you taking me?” He asked, snapping me from my haze. I hadn’t realized till he asked, that I was heading somewhere on purpose.
“I want to see if something is still here.” I replied, turning the corner to a hall entitled “Generations.”
“An old friend?” Alejandro asked, once again assuming the truth. What I wanted was here, displayed at the end by a small leather bench. I took my time to approach it, observing its face with silhouetted moonlight above. “You could say that.” I finally answered, “It’s my favorite painting. I’d come look at it any chance I got,” I added, “that is, while I had my annual pass. I think it’s leaving soon, so it’s nice to say goodbye.”
Alejandro grew considerably quiet, focused in a moment of complete contemplation. The darting dark pupils of his eyes shifted side to side, assessing the entirety of the painting I loved. He appeared speechless, but that would imply an inability to form a thought. I knew this wasn’t true as he hummed, calculating some conclusion before opening his mouth.
“Latchkey Rose,” he finally read out loud, its title printed on a small silver plaque. “Nice to meet you.” The growl in his voice was suggestive, as if he discovered another meaning to who I was. He wouldn’t be wrong, and his salutation appeared less for the painting, and more for the person I supposedly was beneath—a scared little girl.
The pale painting featured a child, the wisps of her hair lost in a fog. Her smile was weak, almost forced with the acrylics slabbed along her body, painted in thick mountainous stokes. At her neck was a rose, but not just a rose, a wound in disguise. Without thought, I reached for my throat, massaging it from the strange nervousness it made me feel. Alejandro was staring, observing once again, both the painting and me.
I considered my feelings for a moment, carefully picking my words. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know how. If I couldn’t share this with Parker, then how could I with anyone else? The only one that could relate wasn’t even real, she was in the painting, stuck in a frame from an artist who was dead.
“Sometimes,” Alejandro started, “we cover the things that hurt us with something more beautiful. It could be fashion, it could be music, or art,” he pointed to the painting, “it could be a rose… but at the end of the day, it’s all just a shield for what’s really beneath,” he added as his unwavering stare fell into mine.
“Pain?” I asked, questioning it myself. I knew the answer and begged for him to agree, but all he did was stare.
It was his turn to speak, to share, but if we were as similar as he said, then I wasn't sure if he would. He opened his mouth, but only bit his lip, the hitch of his voice signaling a word resisted in a groan. I turned to look away, but instead I screamed, frightened by the sudden crash of thunder that fell from above. It quaked the walls around us, pinching my heart into a shakable flutter. Without hesitation I dug my head into Alejandro’s chest, who was much closer to me than I realized. I plugged my ears, wincing at the low boom of fleeting thunder.
“Are you scared?” His voice hummed from his chest. The fold of his leather jacket creased with a noise, as his arms wrapped around my body. He secured my spot, allowing my ear to rest on the thick wall of muscle that pulled me close. My throat tightened, both from the painting and the thunder that reminded me of home.
“It reminds me of arguing.” I admitted, realizing despite the shadows, Alejandro and his leather jacket were the darkest things here. I gravitated to that, and in that safety, slipped out a truth. The dark had a way of doing that, just as it did when I climbed the stairs of the frat house with Parker long ago. Back then, it made it easier to confess my love, but it also got me in trouble. I should have known better. I was vulnerable once again, especially in an exhibit dedicated to families, a subject I specifically avoided. “Myneighborswould always argue,” I lied, feeling a new sense of shame. “Any loud noises take me back to that time. I don’t like it.” I wasn’t sure if he would believe me, but I wanted to say it regardless.
“Hmmm,” he hummed. “Neighbors.” The tone of his voice was comforting, letting me know my answer was accepted, whether if it were true or not.
I was consumed with the rich scent of his cherry smoke, a soothing antithesis to what I grew up with. I wanted to tell him that, but I wasn't sure how it would sound, considering I was cowering in his arms.
“Why cherries?” I asked, innocently inviting the distraction.
“Why Marcello’s Galletas?” He questioned, reminding me of my cookies. “The flavor is a comfort, a specific one at that.”
“Did someone you know smoke them too?” I shifted topics quickly, knowing he was closer to my truths than I was to his.
“Smoke? No. But they remind me of my mother, and I suppose that’s what I like about them.” He responded. The mention of a mother was never good, and I feared he’d ask me about mine. I wanted to pull away, but instead I shut my eyes, steadying myself in his embrace, preparing for another roll of thunder.
“Tell me about that.” I asked. “The memory?”
The hesitancy in his voice appeared but not before he sighed. “Fresno isn’t known for their cherries, but there was man who grew them regardless. He would hire my mom to pick them in the spring, and I’d help her.”
