The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Twenty-Six-

Location: Taholah, Washington, US

The after-reunion doesn't last long enough for Lottie. An hour of eating together at dinner, not quite two hours of words shared in mutual relief in the couple of hours after dinner, and the realization that she'd given them a wrong number when she left. One wrong digit equaled almost ten years of no communication between them. It created most of her misery. Apparently, neat handwriting is a necessity if one wishes to stay happy and well understood. As it turns out, her 1 that she wrote looked too much like a 7.

Paul drives her home. While an offer to stay overnight was extended, she declined in preference to her own apartment. He hadn't wanted to stay either.

They're halfway to Olympia, and she's asleep, her mouth agape in a snore, her bare feet flopped limply on the dash. The radio plays softly, to the same station as earlier.

He glances over at the woman in the passenger seat, and feels a pang of pity. It's all pretty sad.

The odd sort of fascination with her that strikes him is an uncommon feeling for him. Computers are usually his preferred company. To him, people are like that thing that everyone loves and talks about, while you just sit there politely and smile, knowing that you don't agree with anything they say.

Lottie's different. She's fiery, but not overwhelmingly. She talks like an intelligent person, but still doesn't intimidate him with her I.Q.

He likes more things about her than he can count on one hand, which is not something he can say for anyone else.

A loud snore interrupts the gentle, acoustic melody that plays over the speakers.

The rest of the ride goes like that, Lottie snoring, Paul thinking, and also wondering when he became so lonely that he could fall for an emotionally-constipated woman who loves to argue. It's a question that will probably go unanswered forever.

He is forced to wake her up when they get back, which is something that he didn't particularly want to do. She's much more peaceful when she's asleep. The constant frown disappears with the lack of consciousness, and all of the lines on her forehead relax.

But now she's as alert and tense as ever, except now carrying a bit less guilt about her life. The communications thing isn't her fault anymore. It's no one's fault.

She bangs her door open, as always, after wrenching it unlocked, even though it's midnight. She really doesn't seem to care.

"Lottie, if you could be a bit quieter-" She doesn't seem to hear him as she kicks off her shoes and tosses them to the floor, where they clatter for a moment before coming to a complete stop. "-that would really be great."

She shrugs and tosses herself down on the couch before hastily pulling a blanket over her head.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not a night time person," comes her muffled reply. The blanket moves in front of her mouth and nose in little puffs, in, out. In. Out.

"Can't you just go to bed?"

She pulls the blanket away from her face and shakes her head. "No. No, I can't. I need to know what happens in my story, but my computer is busted."

His reply isn't eager at all. He almost groans. "You want me to fix your computer."

"Yes. Yes, please."

He sighs. "Where is it?"

"I'll go get it."

She comes back with it, and his eyebrows rise when he sees the scorch marks on its underside. "I thought you said it crashed? You said nothing about being a pyromaniac."