If We Found Heaven ✓

forty-five ☀

The plane smelled, as planes always did, like smoke and stale peanuts. It wasn't a pleasant smell, Art thought to himself, wrinkling his nose slightly as he sank into the seat. He busied himself with a book as the other passengers sat down. The flight attendants went through their pedantic check down the aisle to make sure that everyone's seat was upright and that bags were correctly stowed away.

Art wasn't a big fan of planes, but they were practical and convenient. His parents wouldn't be happy to see him draining money from his bank account like this, but they wouldn't object. They rarely spoke to Art, and when they did, they never mentioned money. It was a luxury, Art had to admit, that few people were afforded. His parents were wealthy enough to support him, and, being infinitely obsessed with the Wright reputation, did so without a second thought. Art and his parents may have hated each other, but he was well-off and couldn't exactly complain. He wasn't a fan of being around them anyway.

The plane touched down on the runway in New York, and Art breathed out a sigh of relief. These flying death contraptions were better avoided. Sure, Art was obsessed with the mechanical, but he could do without dying in a plane crash. The city was sparkling, lit up against the deep blue of the evening sky. It made Art wonder why exactly Paris was called the City of Lights instead of this picture-perfect portrait of a city.

There should be odes someday written about the New York skyline, Art thought to himself. With a pang of sadness his mind drifted to the one person he knew who could very possibly write an ode like the one Art was imagining.

Art hailed a cab and got in, telling the driver where the apartment he was going to be seeing was. It was a brownstone in the West Village, and Art was probably infinitely lucky that the driver didn't seem to care about the demographic of this particular neighborhood. He handed over some money and got out of the car.

The neighborhood was bustling, despite it being late at night. There was lively chatter coming from the outdoor tables of a restaurant. The whole place seemed to spark with energy, and rightly so. It had been only a year since the Stonewall riots, and while the actual riots may have been nearly over, the fight was not yet won - not by a long shot.

A blonde young woman was waiting outside of the brownstone. She gave a cheery wave when Art walked up. "Arthur Wright?"

Art nodded. "Yes."

"Nice to meet you," she said. "I'm Clara, Mark's assistant. We've spoken over the phone a few times."

"Oh yeah," Art replied. "Good to meet you in person."

"I trust that you had a pleasant flight?" Clara unlocked the door, opening it and stepping aside to let Art through.

"It was fine," Arthur said. He began to walk down the short, thin hallway into the rest of the area. With a jolt, he realized that he sounded like his father. It was as though a business mask had slipped on into place, and Art was playing the part of a well-to-do rich man, rather than being the estranged-but-somehow-still-wealthy-son that he really was.

"Mark will be here in a moment," Clara said, checking the watch on her wrist. "I'm afraid he's not a very timely person."

Art shrugged. "That's alright."

"You can take a look around before he gets here, if you'd like," Clara suggested.

"That sounds great," Art said. He walked into the next room, grateful to be rid of Clara's overly-cheerful tone.

The front door opened, and Art heard the hum of quiet chatter from the entryway. He peeked through the doorway he had walked through, and caught sight of a man - presumably Mark - talking to Clara.