To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Nineteen: Swigfreid and the Flying Monkeys

"Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence" by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1609), stolen 1969 - value $20 million

Chapter Nineteen

Normally, I hated when someone followed behind in their car. It made me terribly self-conscious of my driving, which then only made my driving worse.

To my luck, our destination was halfway between Damar and the museum. Yet, to my chagrin, the journey was slightly lengthened by the building mass of late afternoon traffic. Simon did well keeping up, however, and I attempted to temper my road frustration caused by others. I made sure he could always see my red car, even as awful drivers made me question what vending machine was dispensing licenses willy-nilly out there.

When we arrived, Simon's gray Jeep slid into the parking spot next to mine. I leaned against my car, arms crossed, and watched as he swung himself out with a grace that shouldn't be possible with a car like that. For a man so tall and sturdy, he was surprisingly flexible.

"I never took you as a Jeep guy," I called when he landed on his feet.

His head tilted in confusion, and he locked his car before crossing to where I stood. "What do you mean?"

"Jeep guy. You know, a Jeep guy. Nothing?" I brushed it off with a wave, unsure how to delve into the complexities of car stereotyping. "Well, never-mind, it's not like I know you very well. You're just full of surprises, right?"

"Sure. I mean, I didn't take you as a..."

Simon trailed off as he looked at my car. I watched him weigh his words, but he glanced between me and my ride, and seemingly chose not to continue. I took it as jest.

"Simon! She's not that bad! You'll hurt her feelings." I tutted humorously, laying a hand on the warm hood and smiling. My shoulders tipped and dropped in unabashed fondness of my ride. "She's a little beat up, but Agatha's trying her best. We can't all have rubber duckie collections, you know."

"Beat up?" Simon asked incredulously. He looked from me to my car again, and regret came crashing down as I realized my error. I could feel my face burning; we'd only just started our trip, but I'd already made a horrible mistake. I knew I shouldn't have brought him. I couldn't act so carefree. I wasn't with August, I was with him. Besides, I liked the tradition of trading rubber duckies between Jeeps. I wasn't sure why I had bashed it; I'd always thought it was cute.

"Well... yeah," I explained sheepishly, trying to explain my words. "She's got some wear and tear. It's not like she's the newest model. She's old."

"I'm not sure I'd call your Porsche 'beat-up', but to each their own." He shrugged and turned his gaze back to our surroundings, unaware his words were like pitchforks. "Newest model or not, Agatha can't be that old. Not with all those upgrades."

I didn't know how to respond, or stop the tickling flush of my cheeks. I didn't how to recover from the shortsighted blunder. Instead, I turned, and followed where he was looking. We were a little further downtown, but the small lot we stood in was on the opposite side of the city as the museum. The parking lot tried its best to serve a row of buildings, but many of them saw more customers than the space could handle.

It was a different environment down here. The only similarity was the nightmare of city parking.

A city like this was full of pockets, with plenty of corners to turn and a plethora of spaces to fill. A pocket could be as big as a city block or as small as a doorway, but there were plenty to find as they stitched together to form the urban patchwork. Each one was something different, with its own people, sounds, and uses; each pulsed a little differently to make the harmony that belonged to the area.