The art store is cold but I can stand it.
The floor is clean and uncluttered, but there are dull marks on the scuffed areas. The shelves are not standard white aluminium, instead they are dark shelves, loaded to around six feet tall with art materials, and the rest of the shelves decorated with little handmade signs and posters. The music playing is always good, and Riley, the green-haired cashier on weekends and Tuesdays, is always ready to answer any questions. This place is my small haven, especially with their amazing selections, which apart from large brands like Daler Rowney or Winsor and Newton, have little local brands which are more affordable and uniquely made.
Plus, they have cats.
IN THE ART STORE, 5:33 P. M:
CATS: Meow.
FLOOR: Tap.
ME:
DOOR: Creaks.
Someone has walked in. I don't know who, and I don't really bother too much. Until that someone comes up behind me and presses their hands over my eyes.
I can smell the familiar detergent on their clothes and an underlying woodsy smell I can't quite place, as well as the very faint smell of lime mints on their breath.
GRANT: Guess who.
ME, smiling: You dork.
GRANT: Okay, you're right.
ME, still smiling, staying quiet:
GRANT: What're you looking at?
ME: Drawing inks.
GRANT: Nice. What kind?
ME: Um, Indian ink. Non, non-waterproof.
I stutter because Grant has suddenly slid his hand onto the curve of my waist under my jacket and the sudden contact surprises me. I am suddenly alert of his body weight against my back.
ME:
ME: You're very distracting.
GRANT, whispering: Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
ME: I don't know, I kinda like it.
YOU ARE READING
If You Will
Teen Fiction"every night, she would look up at the stars she could see, and pick the brightest star and give it a name. meanwhile, he would observe every single one of them, and give the brightest a name; her name." - anonymous.
