Daddy issues || h.s

FOR A.

Teresa felt the stony surface of the museum steps beneath her feet as she climbed them. The sun was shining above her, but spring was still too young to let its golden rays warm her face, so the winds of winter kissed her cheeks and made her blush. She hadn't been there for years, but this bleak morning her clear green eyes stared once again at the heavy wooden doors. Her heart was pounding, and as she bit into the soft flesh of a peach, the taste of childhood filled her mouth.

She reached out a pale hand to open the doors, and her eyes immediately fell to the shiny marble floor. The light bulbs above her head reflected upon its cool surface, and if she had bent down, she knew she would have seen her pink lips smile back at her. She had never seen the floors this shiny, and she knew her grandfather would have been proud.

She walked through the rooms, and heard the faint sound of her footsteps echo against the walls. The museum was nearly empty, a couple of broken souls the only ones roaming the halls that morning. Some of them had art books tucked beneath their arms, the names of long dead artists decorating their front pages. They were all there to see the ancient paint and the dusty gold frames that decorated so many of the museum walls, but Teresa was there to see something far fresher. Something far more real. Something far too many in her little town never bothered to see.

The sound of her footsteps died away, and she stopped walking, the three photographs finally standing in front of her. The first one showed a girl. Her hand was covering her mouth, and the painted flowers on her chest were in full bloom. She must have been moving when the photo was taken, because her face was blurry and her features were dulled, but it struck Teresa that her beauty was not. The second photo showed not only the girl's chest, but the boy's too. They were pressed against each other, the paint transferring from her chest to his. The last one showed only his paint-smeared chest, and the dimples in his cheeks. The photos were in black and white, but Teresa had never seen anything more colourful.

A man stood beside her, and before she could stop herself, she felt words fall from her lips.

"Do you think he really loved her?" The man turned his head to look at her, and a warm smile spread across his face. "It's weird, seeing them like this, like real people. I mean, we've all heard the stories, but they always seem to be about lust and sin, never about love. People always seem to avoid that part, but seeing these photos makes me wonder what if was really like, if they really were in love, despite what everyone says."

"He was," the man said. "He really was in love with her." He must have been in his early forties, because the ghosts of his smiles were starting to gather around his eyes, but there were still no sign of ice in his hair.

"In fact," the man continued. "He loved her so much that when she died, his mind broke. When they found him that night, with dying flowers in his hair and a golden girl in his arms, a veil draped across his eyes, and a storm erupted in his mind. He spent seven months in a mental hospital after that."

"Oh," Teresa said, and knit her eyebrows together. A small cut graced her bottom lip, and the man wondered if it was from a fist, or from a kiss. "What happened to him afterwards?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm not sure, but I think he moved to Paris." He answered, balancing a pair of glasses on his nose. She looked at the three photos, at the big smiles and fresh paint, and suddenly she felt as though she knew them, as if she had been there to see it all.

"Did, did he ever find love again?" She asked, a crystal of melancholia forming in her chest. She might have heard the story a thousand times, but now she realized she had never heard the ending.

"Oh yes," the man said and smiled at her. "Many times." His eyes followed hers, and while they swam in the grey shades of the photographs, he let the ending of the story tremble from his lips. "First, he found it with a girl whose skin was coffee kissed by the creamy lips of milk. Then he found it with a boy who had poetry in his heart and a hurricane in his eyes. The love he had for them burned bright, but somehow the flames always seemed to drown in the winter storms. But then, finally, he met a boy with sunsets in his heart and the moon in his mind, a boy who made him feel like he was once again part of the universe, and who promised to stay by his side until the very last star blew out."

When the last words faded away, they stood there in silence, their eyes swimming in the love story in front of them. The muffled voices of the people around them disappeared into the paintings on the walls, and the silent rooms echoed with the sound of her thoughts. She wanted to ask him if they were still together, but then she remembered the stars were still shining, and she asked him another question in stead.

"Did you know him?" When the words left her mouth, she feared they would break the silence, but they were light and soft, and when he looked at her, she knew no words could ever be hard enough to break it.

"No, I didn't." The man said. "It's all in the brochure. Here, take a look." He handed her a thin pamphlet. A small section of the first image vibrated on the cover, and the name of the installation hung above it, quivering as if with some exquisite secret.

"For A." She tasted the name on her lips, and felt as though a drop of honey had landed of them. Small stars of anticipation burned on her skin as she opened it, and saw but a small paragraph that said:

"Harry E. S. is a world famous artist, best known for his entrancing photo-set entitled "For A." These three photographs have travelled the world, making appearances in museums such as "The MoMA", "Tate modern" and "Centre Georges Pompidu." However, the artist has requested that for one month every four years, the photos be retuned to the city whence they were taken, as to remind the world of the untold story behind them.
The artist is now married, and lives in Scotland with his husband and their three children."

There was a photo of him too, a man with dimples and warm, green eyes that she had stared into just moments before.

"This is you." She whispered, but he was gone, and then she smiled, because suddenly, she knew.