Dirty Eminem imagines

No Longer Strangers

A.N. Just read it all, I swear it gets smutty.

It's one of those art exhibits that consumes all of Toronto.
Nuit Blanche.
Where every other building is filled with an art piece.
I can't say they're all that great.
All I'll say is that late stage capitalism is destroying art.
'Art pieces' consisting of light up blocks or completely black canvases are the definition of corporate take over.

In one building is an art exhibit consisting of two large styrofoam balls hanging from the ceiling.
It's the viewer's responsibility to flesh out the pieces.
You've got to take one of those wooden skewers with a little piece of arrow shaped paper glued to the end.
There you can write whatever you'd like before sticking it in the large ball painted pink.
There's enough stuck to it that it doesn't look stupid.

On one of the walls in the building is two black hand prints.
They're a fair distance apart.
Over top one of them states 'PLACE YOUR HAND HERE'
The other says 'HAVE STRANGER PLACE HAND HERE'
Below them says 'REMOVE HANDS WHEN TO LONGER STRANGERS'

My black velvet dress makes me warm inside and cold when I'm outside.
But the prospect of placing my hand down brings on a new wave of violent warmth.
I feel the studded belt clinging to my hips, it traps in the heat.
The spiked collar around my neck only makes me more uncomfortable, like I'm choked up by the idea of placing my hand down.
I don't even have to.
Imagining it is terrifying enough.
The idea of doing something in such a way, even willingly, seems unbearable.
So that's exactly why I do it.

I place my hand down on the left spot and I wait.
I bite down on my bottom lip and stand there awkwardly.
The longer I wait around is giving more people a chance to look at and not approach me.
This is fun.
I'm being both sarcastic and not.
The adrenaline masks some of the social nervousness.

It takes a good two minutes before a large and defined hand is placing itself in the next spot.
There's a tribal tattoo around the guy's wrist and I'm looking up to stare at his face.
He's got a buzzed head that's been bleached blonde.
It's easy to tell cause his eyebrows are a different color and his hair's that semi-yellow color that occurs when you don't tone it right.

He gives a nervous smirk, saying, "Yo."
I stare at his ocean blue eyes and then at his freckled button nose.
Every feature on his face is angular and sharp.
He looks like he could be in the military.
He's got a dog tag around his neck and his hair is in fact buzzed.
But the idea comes and goes quickly.
I notice his pierced ears.
I think I recognize him.
I can't exactly place it.

"Hey" is all I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
He doesn't attempt to help me in my effort to remember where I know him from.

I ask, "the dog tag yours?"

"Naw, my uncles" he admits, gripping it with his free hand and staring down at it.

"He pass in battle?" I'm asking to be considerate.

"Naw, killed himself cause he was in love with this girl who didn't want him back." He explains casually.
I'm sure he's had to tell that story enough that it's slowly stopped hurting as much.
Well, Jesus Christ.
It's intense regardless.

"Fuck, man. Sorry for your loss..." I'm sighing, already tired of keeping my hand placed on the spot.

"It's all good, thanks." He's chuckling modestly, staring back at his hand then back at my face.

"So, what you do?" Right.
We've got to actually get to know one another.
That's the point of this.
That's what we've committed ourselves to.