Little Girl Blue - 𝐖𝐋𝐖

𝐈𝐈. Pragma - ThirtySix

I've never been keen to having my personal life bleed over into my professional. That is, before I slept with a colleague. Before I took in an old student (and pursued a relationship), and destroyed my classroom after receiving some bad news.

My throat ran dry as I sat hunched over the desk. Hearing his grim smile behind the receiver made me stir. As expected as this call was, the anticipation was gnawing at me each second I knew my mother plagued my home. He was beside himself, surely, and too smug to give a damn.

"She was desperate." My fingernails dugs so deep into my palm, they left indents.  His nonchalance was only fueling me.

"You've crossed so many boundaries, Nicky I—" I was at a loss of words. I rehearsed what I'd say in the car, ran it over again when my students settled into their silence during the period. But come lunch and the time for confrontation, it was just word vomit and frustration spewing out of me.

I imagined his dorky composure leaning against the bar, stroking the grease of his hair. Muttering, "what was I supposed to do?"

"God, Nicky!" My head dropped to the desk. "Anything but send her to my home!"

"Is this about Florence? Is she still with you?" He asked for confirmation more so than information. With my fleeing, naturally he was withheld from the fact I took a partner on this crime. A quite young and misled one who often felt as the very crime I was committing. My silence was enough of an answer and there was somewhat of scoff before he replied, "what's special about this one?"

I jarred the phone between my ear and shoulder before leaning back. "You shouldn't talk about her like she's an object."

"You've never treated women any differently. I supposed I'm just confused, that's all, about a lot of things."

"What do you know?"

He released a heavy breath. "Nothing, Jane you've kept me out of the loop for so long I can't even remember who you are anymore. To everybody else this bullshit is okay to pull, but me?"

The line went quiet and I could tell he was offended. And though I felt no guilt, I understood how it felt to be alienated. I was lenient in the fact that he didn't at least deserve that.

"You're right." I said.

"I know."

"I'm an asshole."

"You are."

"And I'm sorry."

"You should be."

I let him bask in his feign hurt for awhile, tapping my nails against the wood of the desk, willing the hand of the clock to stop taking its time.

But what  he finally had to say was something I wished had been it. "She wants his paintings."

I leaned forward, gripping the polished furniture for dear life. "Excuse me?"

On the other side a brash voice requested a drink. Nicky tended to the patron before feeling the need to respond. He knew what he said next had to be wise. It had to be. "Books, journals, pictures, and paintings. She wants everything that's his."

Whatever was his rightfully became mine and she was ready to just take it. I was his only heir, they weren't married. "She..she can't do that." It was the only response I could force out.

"Why do you think she's coming to you then?" He made another drink, perhaps for himself.

She was worse than me when it came to the grieving.What did this man have that was tugging our hearts? Beloved John Donovan. Author. Artist. Humanitarian. A working man because he certainly couldn't be a family one. We were chasing him more in death than we ever did while he was living.