Graffiti Casanova

Graffiti Henna

"Wanna grab me another can?" Casanova's hushed voice drifted down from the top of the ladder, and I hunched to rifle through his bag, producing another can of bright-white paint.

Straightening, I craned my neck to look up at the ladder and had yet another surreal moment as I watched Casanova lean close to the wall with his can. It had been just two days since I'd seen him last and he'd asked to meet me again-- this time, at the V Bar as his spotter. None of his crew was here, not even Mark. Why, I couldn't guess, and he seemed to think it needed no explanation. But it wasn't like I was complaining.

The brick around the V Bar's doorway was now jet-black, and stark white swirls were beginning to flow out from the large V above the door, following Casanova's every subtle movement like an orchestra did its conductor. I was supposed to be watching the road, but it was hard to turn away.

The nozzle of Casanova's current can began to sputter, and he slowed his lines and leaned in closer to get the last of the paint from it before tossing it down to me and reaching for the replacement that I passed up.

He shook the can and started up again, and I turned towards the road, hugging myself against the chill. My breath was hot under the bandana that stretched over my nose and mouth, but my jacket was thin and did little in the night air.

"Mark was busy tonight?" I kept my tone light-- even though it probably wouldn't be much of a surprise to Casanova that I wasn't Mark's biggest fan.

The paint flow stopped.

"Busy moping," Casanova answered cheerily, and clambered down a few rungs of the ladder and settled again, lines flowing once more. "He wanted to come but I made him stay home. We've got it under control." He gripped the ladder and leaned to the side, perfecting the edge of a particularly long flourish.

"Unless..." he stopped and turned to me, eyes glinting curiously above his gas mask. "Unless you're uncomfortable about getting caught? Because we have permission from Otto, I wouldn't have brought you if it wasn't legal--"

"No," I cut him off quickly. Although we both knew that if we were caught, there could-- would-- still be trouble. He was Casanova, after all-- Mayor Platt would have WANTED posters of him all over the city if he could. I should've been nervous. Should've told him this was a bad idea.

"Not at all," I said instead, "I'm with a professional."

He chuckled and jumped, landing lightly on the ground. "A professional at not getting caught?" He turned and began the lower half of the design.

"Among other things," I said as I watched. Otto's piece was much smaller-- he'd given Casanova the doorway and simply said black, white, and classy.

That was exactly what he was getting.

"It's all faking til you make it, I assure you," he answered, stooping to follow a deep curve through. I stepped back, scanning the whole pattern. Now that he was nearly finished, it looked almost like a henna tattoo.

I glanced back at the road as a car sped past. The traffic had been steadily quiet, and we were in the shadows, but the headlights always made me tense.

Casanova was back on the ladder, weaving smaller, thinner designs through the larger piece.

"You got an early morning tomorrow?" he asked.

"Mmhm," I hummed, "band practice with the guys."

"You performing here again soon? Maybe I'll come," he threw a wink over his shoulder at me.

I was thankful for the bandana that covered my blush. "You wouldn't, especially now." I pointed at his design that climbed up the doorway of the V Bar.

"No?" His voice dripped mischief. "I have before."

"Right, but--" I stopped, narrowing my eyes at him. "How many times have you seen us play?"

He sat on a rung and pulled his hood low over his eyes, unhooking his gas mask and flashing me a wicked smile. "Not enough."

I gaped behind my bandana. How many times have I passed him and not known it? That was almost worse than talking to him in person without seeing his face. He could be someone I'd recognize, for all I know.

Casanova dropped from the ladder and shoved the empty cans back in his bag.

"Let's move that ladder, shall we?" He tugged at the ladder, which shuddered and rattled as we eased it down to lay on the ground. We each picked up an end after he shouldered his bag, and walked it around the block of buildings to the back.

"Have we talked?" I blurted.

"Hmm?"

"Have... I talked to you and not known it?"

We lifted the ladder upright and leaned it against the wall next to the V Bar's back door. I could see his frown in the light that illuminated the lines of his mouth as he looked up to steady the ladder.

"You know there's only one answer I can give." The light was gone, his face was back in the shadows, unreadable. "And I don't think you really want it. Don't you think there'd always be a doubt in the back of your mind that I'm not telling the truth?"

It was my turn to frown as I untied my bandana and clutched it in my hand. "I'm not sure." I twisted the bandana around my wrist. "Yeah. I guess there would be."

He nodded. "Then my answer doesn't matter."

I didn't respond, just stared down at my bandana.

"No, you haven't," Casanova finally said. There was no way to tell if it was genuine or not. I guess he was right, it didn't matter. 

"And you're right, I won't come here. Not for a while." He started to turn but stopped, and faced me, catching my wrist. "But that doesn't matter either. We'll see each other again soon."

I looked down at my wrist. His fingers were there and then they weren't, just like him.

Thanks for your patience, everyone-- hit that star if you're glad Cas is back, and let's hear your thoughts in the comments! What do you think-- is Cas telling the truth?

Chapter song is When It Comes to Us by Frances :)