Nameless // h.s. au

Chapter One

Chapter One

*Hunter*

She holds the world in her hands as she lays that one towel down over the railing yet she shuts it out when she closes the glass doors and latches them shut. When she stares in the glass pane until she has some of the nerve to turn away. Turn her back on the reflection staring back at her and let the head of blonde locks be the only thing facing the world. Then she walks away with nothing but the-

"I'm sorry ma'am you can't sit here." Shit.

I look up from my notebook and face the security guard staring down at me with my books in a stack in front of my crossed legs and my backpack sprawled out on the floor.

"Oh, um...," I fade out as I grab my bag off the floor and start shoveling meaningless books I have fallen in love with into its tearing interior, "sorry." I manage to get out as the horrid sound of papers- I probably needed- crunch under my last book.

The security guard nods curtly at me as I stand and brush off my jeans. She looks older- but not old. Like she's having a hard day with the bags under her eyes and the loss of life in her lips which should be graced with a smile- but are not. Maybe her husband left her- or wife? Maybe she is moving far away and this is the last stretch at a job she will be leaving? Or simply that she isn't a happy person.

She narrows her eyes at me before I realize I've been staring at her for the past minute not saying anything and not moving. Whoops.

Usually I'm not kicked out of my perch but that's only because Robert usually mans this floor and he doesn't care that I sit here with my books and my thoughts.

My converse pad against the wooden floor as I pass the richest and most creative people presented in front of me, leaving my beloved window. I usually sit in that corner staring out of said window and writing about whatever I want. It's calm and quiet even though it still has enough chatter from passing art majors and entrepreneurs that like to gawk at the art work in this fine building.

The Museum of Modern Art had served its purpose in my life. It has given me inspiration when I cannot find any and it gives me hope when that's gone as well. Strange right? Wrong.

The chatter from those art majors and entrepreneurs is entertaining to listen to and write stories off of. The modern architecture is eye catching and I could study each floor board that was put in. There is no music playing- nothing cheesy- nothing distracting. Just art.

And stories. Oh are there stories. They range from the lost lovers who find each other amidst the wild paintings and smothering air. Or the lonely woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she stalks one piece of art she could probably afford- with the permanent scowl gracing her silicone cheeks. My interests lately have fallen on something not enclosed in these four walls. But the ones across the street.

Old apartments line the opposing side of the street as if they're row houses pressing against each other with winding fire escapes and chipping paint.

I sigh as I step onto the escalator descending from level five.

The moving staircase of the twentieth century rolls from under my feet as I continue onto level four and grace myself with the view of the sculpture garden and the zig-zag staircase opposite my position on the escalator.

I turn the corner and pass the stacks of pamphlets and mentally exhausted tourists residing on blush modern benches. My feet carry me down yet another three levels before I'm on the ground floor and staring up at the floor above me through the glass railings.