The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 11

Saturn

"Art."

Art felt like he was suffocating.

"Art."

His chest was tight.

"Art."

Like someone was sitting on him.

"Art."

Someone was sitting on him. He opened his eyes to see David's odd eyes staring at him, just inches away from his face. She knelt on his chest, her white t-shirt brushing against his chin. Art rubbed his eyes with his palms and smacked his dry mouth. "What is it?" he asked sleepily.

David slid over on the bed, Art's lungs welcoming the air that he drew back into them. "Can you show me the museum today?"

"What?" He was still processing how he came to be back in his bed after such an incredible evening.

"The museum," she insisted.

"What are you talking about?" Art asked. "There are a lot of museums."

"The art museum, of course," she declared. "I need to absorb some artworks today. I need to wrap myself in a cloak of colors and breathe in the smells of the paints and see into the eyes of artists, soak up their creativity. I have felt so drained since I came back. I need to find that spark again."

"Right now?" Art asked. He could barely stomach the thought of getting up right now, showering and dressing. He just wanted to lie there and bask in the memories of the night before, or go back to sleep and dream about them.

"Yes!" she exclaimed.

Art slowly sat up, against every cry of his body. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," said David. "I don't even comprehend time."

She was awfully energetic, whatever the time. "When did you get up?" Art asked. He managed to bring his feet over the edge of the bed and rest them on the floor.

"I've been up for days," David said, bouncing up and down on her knees, rocking the mattress until Art felt queasy. "Come on, Art. Art, Art. You know what I'm saying?"

"No, not really," Art answered. "Give me a few minutes to get my bearings, okay?" He looked at the clock. It was almost ten. He couldn't believe it. He hadn't slept until ten since he could remember. Of course he hadn't been out bar hopping with coworkers since he could remember either. He cursed.

"What's the matter, love?" David asked.

"I didn't mean to sleep this long."

"Like I said, time has no meaning. I'm just anxious is all. I feel like all my artistry has melted out of my body, or I pissed it out or something. I need inspiration, and what better place to get inspired than the art museum. I can look at art with Art, and then create art with Art!" She almost leapt off the bed, came around to Art and grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet. "But I really can't wait any longer, so please, get up."

Art groaned, but got to his feet. He shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth, while David rooted through his closet for a proper outfit. She threw a pair of mustard slacks on the bed that Art did not think he could pull off, and a plain black t-shirt. She then went to work constructing her own outfit.

Art came out of his bedroom showered and dressed to find David standing impatiently by the front door. She had on a pair of blue jeans, which he never imagined he would see her wearing, a white tank top, and the feathery white angel wings she purchased at the secondhand store strapped to her chest. How she managed to look like a runway model instead of a delusional lunatic was beyond him.