I stared at the way her over-sized flannel draped lazily over her bubbling body.
"I like it when the paint gets all over my clothes."
I smirked as I noticed the shades of blue and black covering her plaid gown with the buttons I wanted to pop right off. I wanted to rub the paint all over her body, making a rainbow that followed her curves and put ink spots with my tongue on her neck. I wondered if underneath that piece of lumberjack-style fabric she was wearing lace or even better- nothing. But, because of the laws of social nature (her being her, and me being me) I just let out a casual "why?".
She simply shrugged, but after letting silence seep its way into our ears, she said something I will never forget. With her eyes locked to mine, she bent over and
"It's better than blood."
crashed into our stream of quiet. She said it in such a whisper I had to think about what I just heard. But before I could question it, she let out a laugh that electrocuted my soul. She had a way of saying words with such poetry, such theatrics, that I felt like it wasn't fair that listening to her speak was free. I would've sold my soul for whatever the devil offered if it meant I could be front row for one of her shows. I would sell my dogs soul for VIP passes. Watching her sit like a gargoyle, painting whatever was trapped in her oh-so fucking gorgeous mind, and hear the underlying scritch-scratch of Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl made me feel like everything was okay.
But this wasn't a movie, it was more like a black hole.
And I would soon come to find, everything was not okay.
Certainly.
