Art.

dos

I told Kala about Leo last night.
I told her about his sandy blonde hair and the pearly whites that appeared when he smiled. I told her how he called me pretty and how this particular train journey was the best one yet.

Kala seemed thrilled for me, up until the point where the name 'Leonardo' poured from my own cherry lips.
Her warm smile turned into a cold frown in less than a heartbeat.

She told me of a similar boy, and how he had spilled similar sweet talk into her ears.
He told her of how her freckles dotted the bridge of her nose like the constellations of the evening sky and how her voice was of the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk.

She informed me to be cautious; the devil takes care of his own.
Kala believes that men are of a complete different species. "Men are made up of nothing but ill manners and cheap cologne. They feed off the hearts they break."

Throughout my pre-adolescent years, my mother would always preach her own strong opinion on what art was. She would often recall that "art has a subject of opinion."

She said that artwork wasn't necessarily the pretty girls, or the hot boys, but it was the individuals that had the most deadly weeds growing inside of them.

But Leo was not like that. He was beautiful. He was art. He was different.