burning g.d

2

a few weeks later, we moved. tears were shed, boxes were packed. the new apartment is actually a lot nicer than i expected. it has three bedrooms, and two bathrooms. pretty cookie cutter. now, all i really have to do is unpack the smaller stuff.

when i walk into my room, immediately i set up my art. an easel in front of the window, all my canvases neatly stacked on the shelf beside it. my paints packed in a small bag resting on the window sill. art is my escape. when the bristles hit the canvas all my worries drip away and every grudge that i've held against someone, turns into a stroke in my painting.

i finish unpacking the few boxes in my room and decide to explore. i change into a thrasher hoodie and leggings and slip my phone into my pocket. let's see what san francisco is all about.

"mom, i'm leaving." i shout as i snatch my keys from the table.

"where are y-" i slam the door before she can respond, jogging down the steps and hopping into my car.

i pull out my phone and look up the nearest art gallery, finding one only a few miles away.

"okay san fran, show me your art."

•••

the gallery itself was small from the outside, a short window only really revealing a few paintings, the words golden gate gallery in rusty copper letters above the door. as i step inside the sound of sam smith plays softly on the speakers and the smell of dust surrounds me. interesting music choice for an art gallery. there really aren't man people inside, just a couple of elders here and there.

my legs wander with my mind as i examine the paintings on the walls. mostly mediocre, mainstream stuff. like a beach or a tree. something you'd see pretty much in any art gallery. one section catches my eye.

it's an entire floor of wire sculptures. the silver metal is twisted and bent to make a beautiful image, the material shimmering in the dim light. one is a young boy dancing with a butterfly. another is a hand with trees sprouting out through the fingertips. my favorite is a skeleton playing the trumpet with a bony dog sitting beside him.

as i near the beautiful sculptures i reach out to touch the skeleton. my fingers near the small card beside it that reads artist: b, not for sale.

"don't touch it." my body jumps back and my head whips to the voice.

"s-sorry." i stutter, heat rising to my cheeks.

"it's fine. just you can't touch the art in here." he shrugs and i nod. he's a middle aged man, probably about 50. he's wearing a security guard uniform.

"okay... do you know who 'b' is?"

"who? oh, the artist. b is anonymous. they really stay hidden. nobody ever sees them, they bring a new sculpture every week."

"oh, okay well thanks." i smile shortly and continue down the hall.

•••

after the gallery i take a small trip to a little ice cream shop down the street, grabbing a milkshake and taking a seat by the window. surprisingly i'm the only costumer at the moment.

i sit for a little while, staring at the people walking by. some are alone, mostly on their phone, some are with others in conversation. as i'm about to finish i hear muffled voices from outside the door behind the counter.

"yeah, i'm working on another- oh." an employee comes out from the back with a boy, and they both stare at me awkwardly. the one on the right keeps his green eyes on me with his plump lips turned up in a small smile. my gaze lingers on him for a few seconds, just taking in his features. his sloped nose, prominent jaw, arched brows. his brown hair flops forward slightly as his head tilts in interest.