Every time I close my eyes, I see a flash of the past. Sometimes, I see the battlefield with bodies at every step, and smoke from artillery fire everywhere you looked. Sometimes I see friends, Odin, Michael, and even Azazel. But most of the time, I...
The dinner's quiet, save for the faint hum of an old jukebox. I sat alone at a booth, hunched over a half-eaten plate of bacon and eggs. No goggles or coat. A fly buzzes near my coffee mug. I killed it.
Good. Keep your hands clean for me. Don't let anyone steal your attention tonight.
Suddenly, the door jingles open. A woman steps in, clearly confused. She glances around, clutching a canvass satchel. Her eyes land on me.
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Stranger: (desperate) Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je suis désolée de vous déranger mais... je suis perdue. Je cherche une exposition d'art. C'est très important. Je dois y être avant midi.
Y/N: (speaking French) You got lost in Nevada trying to find an art exhibit? Not exactly the place for paintbrushes and dreams, you know.
She smells like lavender. She shouldn't be here. People like her make promises they can't keep. Promises to you.
She blinks, surprised and relieved.
Stranger: (in French) Oh! You speak French! Thank you. I arrived this morning, but my GPS stopped working. It's... stressful.
She gestures to her satchel.
Stranger: I'm a painter. My pieces are already there. If I don't show up, they'll think I've been kidnapped.
I took a long sip of my coffee. How'd this woman even get this far without knowing english?
Y/N: You're lucky. Most folks who get lost around here do end up missing. Especially foreigners. Got a name?
Don't tell her too much. Names are knives. Keep it short.
Stranger: Élodie.
Y/N: Élodie. Figures. Sounds like a name that gets into trouble politely.
I pushed my plate aside and stood up, leaving the money inside the mug.
Y/N: Alright. I'll get you to your art party. I was starting to feel too comfortable anyway.
Don't let her smile. Her smiles are little claims.
She smiles warmly, clearly grateful.
Élodie: Thank you, mister...?
Y/N: Y/N. Just Y/N. Don't ask for my last name.
Good. Let her guess. Let her ache for details she won't have.
We walk toward the door. Élodie glances at my scars.
Èlodie: Are you an artist too?
Y/N: In a way. I paint in red, mostly. My canvases tend to scream.
