COMPLEMENTARY [GxG]

Chapter 29 | Death Galleries

"It would be blasphemous to compare ourselves to the gods," I say. "But maybe we are their miniature selves, finding one another over and over again."

And then I blush at how intimate it sounds. The idea of knowing her, hating her since the dawn of time.

Other than her pressing her knee against mine as the jet took off, we've both kept our distance since the moment we woke. My heart keeps skipping beats whenever I think about it. I would hate myself more for letting it happen if it had been solely my doing, but no—we're both responsible this time. I can tell she's embarrassed, always averting her gaze after a few seconds instead of staring me down like usual.

"Looks like we got a winning essay, then," she says. "All that's missing is for us to finish the damn painting."

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I have no clue what to expect from Mexico City. The first thing that hits me is the altitude sickness. Surrounded by mountains at thousands of metres above sea level, I'm already dizzy and out of breath. The bodyguards carry our paintings, the last of them unfinished, across the airport through customs and immigration, which goes smoothly. Eris is in her domain, comfortable wherever her family's money is able to reach, drawing no suspicion other than the silk-covered canvases we're parading through the crowds.

In the taxi, which is less like the little beat-up taxis I see regular people flagging down on the street and more like a bulletproof presidential cruiser, Eris lets me take the window seat and watch the chaotic scenery. There's heavy traffic and more honking than I've ever heard at once, our driver dead silent through sharp turns and questionable merging that bring the panic on like one of Chalchiuhtlicue's waves. No one's wearing a seatbelt but me. I watch the beaded rosary dangling over the rearview mirror, equivalent to Eris' but made of plastic instead of gold. Her hand finds mine, and aware of being watched by Alfonso and the other men, I abruptly move away.

She rolls her eyes. Shameless and tired of holding herself back, she grabs my hand again and leans her tired head on my shoulder, which at least distracts me from the possibility of an impending crash.

She mutters something about how you can see the mountains when the smog isn't so bad. The city is the opposite of cookie-cutter San Diego, with varying architecture and levels of graffiti and cleanliness. There's so many people walking about on the streets, getting in and out of buses, businessmen on calls and women in colorful clothing selling phone cases and DVDs and clothes in pop-up street stands. It's more vibrant than Toronto or even Berlin, with a sense of something happening at every second, the feeling of insignificance overwhelming in the urban immensity.

We pass one of the most famous landmarks—the golden angel of independence, towering high in sculpted, winged glory over a pillar of stone. I lament the fact we won't get to sightsee.

The moment we get to the lavish hotel, it's a frantic race to the finish line. I'm not ready to be alone with Eris, but our painting beckons us. She unloads the duffel bag of painting supplies over one of the pristine beds, and we get to work. Instead of painting in segments, some belonging to Eris and others to me, our styles clash and melt together. We're constantly moving from corner to corner, bringing half-painted ideas to life, adding where the other lacks.

It's a clash of America and Africa, geometric details inspired by traditional art blended with colorful realism. I've studied many paintings in preparation for this moment, attempting to create a color palette that represents both worlds.

We paint like true, mad artists. Eris orders us room service, arguing with me to eat because I can barely break away—our life, our fate, our future depends on what we do with our paintbrushes right now.