The Weeping Women

 "Did you do this?"        

Footsteps, a sound not unfamiliar to these old warehouse floors- or the destruction they bring. Smash, so sad the painting meant nothing to me but it easily could have caught a pretty penny. Puff, smoking is always a good way to pass these- disruption. Pause, "did you do this?" The officer before me screamed flipping over a table and charging at me; holding it in his hand only inches from my face. What was it? a mere post card of Guernica, the painting I did what? Years ago. 

"No, you did." I told him. "Keep it, a souvenir." 

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"You actually said that! To the Gestapo!" My dear Dora asked, half naked laying on my bare chest.  

"Of course," I replied, looking over to the side table for where I left my cigarettes.  

"Well what happened next." 

Sitting up, i lite a cigarette and took a deep breath in. "I thought to myself, I need to get to you as fast as I can it would make such great pillow talk." I couldn't help but grin at myself before taking another puff.

"What the world would think if they knew how much a horn dog the great Picasso really is," she said playfully sitting up and curling around me. 

"Half the world already knows and the other half doesn't care." The question bothered me though, what would they really think? A practical divorce, two children, each from a different women, and now this- fling? No it's been to long to call it that.

"Pablo," Dora said timidly distracting me from my thoughts. "Do you remember? before Guernica, before you were even director of Prado?"

The question was innocent, but given all that's happened since than it brought a surge of memories both content and depressing. Olga's screaming, Marie's anguish, Maia's little hands stained white from the paint of Guernica, and Dora- Dora's bloody gloves and sexual advances. It's enough to write a drama about.