You're My Kind Of Wrong

Chapter Five

Axton

First, I decide to show her the apartment, strategically skipping my bedroom so she doesn't feel like I am being crude.

I show her the living room, her eyes stopping at every single artwork I own; her curiosity soaring with every passing second. I point at a digitally enhanced photograph of a couple that has been cut out of their wedding picture, leaving only the background and their shape to be seen, and start talking.

"This one I got a few years ago, in a gallery in Paris." She bobs her head to indicate she's following.

When Elizabeth's eyes drift to a very large piece of painting, hanging in full display behind the sofa, its shapes resembling eyes in the midst of a turmoil of colors and limb-like forms, I continue, "This particular one is a favorite. It seems to stare." I don't know how she'll feel about the last comment. Fuck, am I being creepy?

"I like this one, I can understand where you're coming from. A bit subjective; self-aware and introspective; with some elements influenced by pop culture, but still somewhat brooding," she says naturally like she's done it a thousand times before.

I chuckle. "Do you care for Art?" Of course, she does.

"I do. Although I have to admit I do not know as much as I would like." She seemed quite confident a second ago, still, her humility is refreshing.

"Neither do I. Doesn't stop me from appreciating it, though," I say, running my fingers through my hair.

"All forms of art are food for the soul." Her voice is only a whisper, a loud thought.

"'Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life,'" I reply.

"Pablo Picasso. You don't happen to have one of his painting lying around, do you?" She squints her eyes.

"Maybe next time."

We do this only a couple more times with pieces that seem to spark her interest. I can't exaggerate, or else I'll seem like a complete tosser.

Elizabeth seems pleased with the surroundings, which for some reason, I find it oddly satisfying. She stops facing my library, begging me with puppy eyes. I can feel her hands itching to touch the volumes, and it amuses me.

"Can I?" she says while tracing the golden letters of a very old copy of The Great Gatsby. Again with the eyes; this woman is going to be the death of me.

Even though I am not entirely confident I want her to see my notes on its pages, I yield. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out."

She flips through it and then goes on to the next one. She does it to some novels—I take it her favorites, and I can't take my eyes off of her. I am not entirely convinced as to why I give her time; perhaps I want her to live this, or perhaps I am the one who wants the opportunity to stare. The way Elizabeth analyzes the yellowed pages and the broken spines is absolutely endearing. She is like a kid on Christmas morning; it's clear she adores this. I wish I could love something like that.

"Did you come here only for my books?" I ask, breaking her out of a trance.

"Wha—No! Of course not." She slams the one in her hands shut, and I can't help but wonder her true reason for coming today.

"You seem to have more interest in them than in me." Her blood runs to her cheeks and I relish knowing I can cause this reaction on her.

"Sorry, I couldn't contain myself. They are so..." She appears to drift away in thought. Wrapping a lock of hair around her index finger she snaps back. "I should learn to behave better."