Liquorice

6.Itches

Author's note:

Today doesn't feel real and neither will tomorrow. Time is a curious thing. Do all the math you want, time is still a word. Time is a feeling and a place. Time is what's in between virgin's thighs and around hangmen's throats. And then time isn't anything. Because it flows, thus dissappearing. We are all, in a sense, time.

*Kristen's point of view*
There really isn't much to look forward to when you're me. School, cigs, books, sleep, repeat.

Not until she came by, that is. When she appeared, my existence became every bit as delightful as a miserable little human life can be.

I did not see her for a few days after our "date" at the Shepard's Crook.

She was out of town.

I missed her, or rather, she was missing from me.

That fluorescent light bulb which had ignited inside of me on our first two encounters was itching painfully, longing to be around the ocean-eyed read head once again.

On a rainy, cold morning she called.

"Hello."

"I'm sorry I didn't call. Figured you'd be busy."

"You thought I wouldn't have had time for you."

"Basically yes."

"I was very busy, but I would have answered anyway."

"Again, I'm sorry. I don't even know what we are."

"We're women. That's enough."

I laughed audibly.

"Don't you laugh at me, missy."

"I've missed you."

"I know. I'm home now. Wanna go somewhere?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I don't care as long as you're there."

"There is a contemporaneous​ art museum on 49 Island Street."

"I'll be there after sixth period."

"Good."

She hung up.

During those accursed six hours of dull, useless classes I hole-heartidly wished I would have skipped school all together all the while feeling my nicotine infused lungs burst with anxious, emotional pressure.

When I finally got to the agreed upon destination, the rain was falling at a lazy, monotone pace, caressing her frilled umbrella.

"I did not see you there."

I pulled the hood of my coat lower.

"And his name is John Cena."

"Haha very funny. Let's get inside before my shoes get soaked."

I can't recall much of the art in that small, blue tinted museum, apart from a few abstract triangles and obscure silhouettes.

She was clothed in shades of blue and black, with a big, autumn colored broche pinned on her cobalt blazer.

She looked at canvases and sculptures with determined interest, like she was trying to absorb every single paint spot or plaster shape.

We didn't do much afterwards, just walked the cobbled, damp streets and talked for maybe an hour about various trivialities in our lives.

To conclude, we killed time.
And we killed it with rose thorns and golden chains, in the most beautiful way there is.