The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Four-

Location: Central

The potato that I hand Femi isn't fresh. Food almost never is here. 

She doesn't complain right away, but she doesn't thank me, either. Instead, she wrinkles her nose in disgust when she bites into it. 

"Sorry that it's old. Better than nothing though?"

She shrugs, taking another bite and gagging when she attempts to swallow. 

I sniff my potato before nibbling on it.

Oh. That's why she doesn't like it. It tastes like burnt plastic that has come in direct contact with sewage. Not kidding. It's gross. 

"On second thought, let's not eat that." I sit there quietly for a second before offering an apology about the food. "Sorry, Femi."

She sets the potato down and stretches her recently-painted arms.

The scent of her paints has become commonplace to me in the last couple of weeks, as has the sight of her re-applying the paint on her face and arms. Mostly just the arms, though. I don't know why she seems so determined to block out the sight of fate—the words. It won't change anything. And she always uses her favorite colors to paint over those words. Greens and purples and blues. Her happy colors, so I've deduced. I've never had happy colors myself, but my mom had them. Hers were red and yellow, the colors of the roses and daffodils, two flowers that I remember seeing in pictures in old botany books.

Femi's are the colors of grass, and clear sky, and violets. All are things that I've never seen in person.

She's an unusual one.

Right now, she looks at me expectantly, hands draped over each other, a chunk of rejected potato lying on the napkin in front of her. 

I can't say that I know what to do about it.

"Well, we can't eat that, can we?" I groan, pushing away from the table. Maybe I've got a can of something in a cabinet, or a box of something. The chances of finding some food lying around are extremely slim, but I look anyway. 

When I come back with empty hands, she's not at the table waiting for me. She's disappeared.

"Femi?"

I can hear noises coming from the shop, a single voice and lots of clanking. Then I hear an engine start.

I take off running and slam through the doorway. "Hey!"

The last few days, I've been doing some work on a guy's motorcycle. I replaced the carburetor and did some welding work on the muffler, so it doesn't dangle awkwardly above the ground anymore.

And now, the fellow seems to be ready to take it back. 

"It's running lots better, man," he says, revving the engine. I don't want to consider the possibilities of whether or not he's going to take off right now. It's not looking good, because his pockets look pretty empty and he hasn't moved to get off of the motorcycle.

"We had a deal. Ten bucks." My voice rattles like a loose screw, wavering in uncertainty. And I hate myself for it. 

"Yeah man, I'll pay you." He hops off after revving the engine again, grinning so broadly that I can just about see every tooth in his mouth. He slaps a ten dollar bill into my hand. "Will that do it?"

"Uh, yeah. I think that's pretty fair."

He smiles at me again, without the teeth this time. And for that, I'm more than a bit relieved. Those teeth are on the verge of being scary. "Buy your girl something special."