To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty: The Beauty I Found

There were murals of prominent figures across all categories: famous artists, musicians, writers, activists, filmmakers, even politicians. There were indignant slogans of justified defiance designed to incite the masses. There were quotes of peace marked in various countries' colors, and astoundingly creative mixes of styles, all coming together to form one large mural of individual designs. Like all good art, the vivid imagery unnerved what needed to be unnerved. Figures danced, colors wiggled, and imagination stood proud, just like the famous figures painted on the walls. Some designs were trippy to look at, some were downright weird, and all were unique.

I'd been so excited to bring Simon. A few of my favorite local artists had recently finished pieces, including a good friend of mine, who'd unveiled a piece heavily influenced by her indigenous roots. It'd been a prize to behold.

But it wasn't the only work that'd made us stop in our tracks.

On one of the walls, in the same style as the work done by the artist who'd targeted Whitehill's memorial, had been Mr. Monopoly. With his eyes closed, a hand full of cash, and the other raised as if to lick a finger, he'd been black and white amongst the color. It was only in his shadow that color mixed and mingled amongst itself. The shadow was painted on the wall beneath him, showing a raggedy figure holding a spray can, cowering under Mr. Monopoly's might. Its arms were pulled to the side as if to hide what it held.

For once, the work had been signed. "2PONT" had been marked in the corner.

Simon had tried to pull me away. He'd scowled and scoffed, ready to move on, but I'd urged him to wait so I could absorb the work and decode its meaning. I knew Simon didn't have the cipher, but I did. When I'd looked hard enough, I'd seen its meaning so bright and obvious.

I remembered that day, and his words, and the feelings I'd carried on tired shoulders.

"I hate this guy," Simon remarked. He stared with distaste at the wall, as if personally offended by the very existence of the work.

"It's interesting. He's definitely falling into a pattern. 2PONT seems to value hidden, heavy meaning in his pieces, which is a bold take these days," I mused. I'd slid into analysis. "If he wanted, he could reach a larger audience by making his message explicitly clear, especially here, with all these people. These days, most people want instant gratification. They don't want to spend too much time trying to understand something. Then again, it'd probably get covered if he was too obvious. Gotta give him credit though, beautiful choice in colors, especially with the contrast."

Simon turned his gaze to me, his brow becoming arched, eyes softening. I grew shy, realizing I'd just donned a hat I hadn't worn in a long time. Yet, his words weren't malicious. "You find beauty in everything," he half-teased. "Has anyone ever told you it's okay not to? It must be exhausting."

I shrugged. "I'm sure a lot of people do, in their own way."

"Not like you."

"What do you mean 'not like me'?"

Simon was amused as he held his hands up in surrender, all golden grins and laughing eyes. "Don't get me wrong, babe, I love it!"

"I'm glad, but don't back down now," I prodded, also smiling. His happiness was contagious. "What did you mean?"

Simon thought about it for a moment. He glanced at the walls, the murals, and then back at me. I waited, curious. I half-expected some answer of 'because you worked at an art museum'.

"Well, when we go on walks, you stop at every painted utility box," he eventually said. "Like it... calls to you, or something. You marvel every public mural, decorated poster, every hint of design. The chalk on the sidewalks, the stained glass in the churches, the statues in the park. Maybe you don't notice how much you do it, or it's instinct—but you see art everywhere. You find beauty wherever you are."