The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Nine-

Location: Central

The man came to get his car today, driving away my hopes and dreams with the smell of the leather seats in that old Firebird. 

It was beautiful. 

One of those situations where you hate to see it go, love to watch it leave.

I love cars. 

My bruises have started turning painful shades of brown and green, and I cringe at how much worse it makes my chest and back look. Not that they were great before, but I didn't think it could get worse.

Femi is making tea right now, adding a bit of sugar to the whole kettle instead of just putting a spoonful in her own cup. 

"Can you get me some, too?" I ask, shifting my weight against the doorway between living area and shop. I'm on the shop side of the doorway, obviously.

She nods, smiling as she turns her head to look me in the eye, seemingly happy that I'm up.

She's told me several times in the way she does that she glad I'm okay.

I tell her that I'm glad I'm okay too, even though that's a horrible joke. 

She walks over and hands me my cup, her warm arms pulling me into a hug. Her wild bed-hair tickles my nose, and I sneeze.

I don't realize until after she pulls away that my tea cup is much lighter. 

And the fabric of my hoodie that she's wearing is darker.

I do believe that I just spilled my tea all over her. 

She scowls at me, but I can tell that she's doesn't mean it. She never means it when she looks at me like that.

I'm sure the sheepish way I feel is plastered across my face as I grin at her nervously. 

"Sorry."

She waves my apology away, and pulls the hoodie over her head before draping it across an empty packing box to dry.

This place is such a mess. 

She pats my arm teasingly before taking the empty mug from my hand and walking away.

"Do I get more?"

Silence.

I don't care much, though. I don't like tea. 

Turning around slowly, I notice something in the far corner of the shop.

I make my way over there, wincing with every step, and bend down to pick up the object that lies like a hurt butterfly on the floor. It's that little paper heart that was tied to the rafters. I pick it up and study it, turning it over and over in my hands. 

Femi would love to see more of these.

I hold it gently, pondering, before I grab a pair of scissors off of the edge of my tinkering table and a sheet of orange cardboard and get to work. 

About an hour and fifty hearts later, I find myself at the top of the ladder; tacking all of the hearts that I made to the ceiling.

It's even harder than it sounds. 

Have you ever tried to convince a pushpin to go through plaster when you're standing fifteen feet above the ground, on tiptoe, and your hands are as far above your head as they'll go? Yeah. It's not fun.