The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Seventeen-

Location: Central

The sound of Femi's feet padding across the floor is the best noise to me. It means that she's here, and that's she up and about, not hiding or being depressed somewhere. 

I'm taking an inventory of my tools in the shop, counting wrenches, trying to remember how many ratchets I had before and deciding how many were stolen. 

Femi walks up beside me. 

I look over my shoulder at her, to her newly re-bandaged hands, and then back to her face.

"What's wrong?"

She frowns down at the wrappings that hold her cut-up hands in bondage. "I need to paint."

I smile. Her eyes are so much the same as they always have been, as serious as they are sweet, somber as they survey me. 

"Your hands will probably be good in a week or so. I'll find a way to get you some paints by then."

She smiles, muted and soft. It's a faint testimony of brokenness. 

"That sound good?"

A nod comes in reply.

The warm morning streams through the open window, the air perfect for my mood, clean-smelling and warm, even if it's gray.

A smile twists my mouth as I look at Femi. Gray is beautiful. 

She cocks her head to one side, her rag-bound hands resting idly at her sides. 

We stare at each other, neither of us looking away, our smiles growing until she begins to chuckle, and I find myself laughing until I can't breathe. She mostly just grins.

"You're so ridiculous, Paris." Her gray eyes sparkle. 

"What? Why?" 

"Just you. Next to dead a couple weeks ago, and now you're counting wrenches and laughing for no apparent reason. It's just crazy. You're crazy."

I look down, my grin softening into a faint smile as I look for printing on a pair of greasy work gloves. "Aww, come on. You like the crazy. Just admit it."

"Okay. I do."

"Yeah. So go make yourself useful. Turn on the music or something," I say, wiping away some dust on the handle of a hammer. While that may not technically be a mechanic's tool of the trade, banging on stuff can be beneficial.

She walks back out of the room, humming to herself, as I get back to sorting through tools. The orchestral music that I've learned to tolerate comes in full blast, reverberating through the walls, floor, and any obstacles to vibrate into my eardrum. 

"Turn it down a little, please!"

She does, a little, and I get back to work, careful not to hurt my hand again. It hurts so bad when I jar it against things.

A bandaged hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump, smacking my aforementioned hand against the toolbox. 

I grimace.

She stares at me silently, weighing the likelihood of my bad reaction when she says whatever she came to say. I know that's what she's doing. She does it all the time. 

I blink, clenching my jaw. "What is it?"

She shifts from one foot to another as the music in the other room crescendos into an almost overwhelming river of music. Her face belies two emotions. The stronger one, timidness, and the lesser one, fear. "I was wondering if you'd dance with me?"