The Last Love Letter

Chapter 12

Subah returned to her exhibition before 3. The meeting had lasted an hour.

The man had been frank and courteous, and except for his late arrival, he had done nothing to raise her suspicions. He had even told her to transfer the money only after the work had been done. That was generous, though unprofessional. He had also mentioned that Johnnie Sparks was his company name and she was his first client. He was quick to add that he had five years of experience in the advertising industry and that she could trust him. She knew she could never trust him because he was a man, but she chose to just nod. In her current circumstances, she had no option but to give it a shot.
She emailed the additional information that Mr Sparks had asked for, including a few pictures of her paintings and the literature she had so carefully prepared that described the entire exhibition, the reason for the name Alone to the Moon and Back, and the overall theme, etc. That would allow him to prepare an informative, impactful and truthful social media campaign. He had said he would target people through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Google Ads. Subah did have a Facebook account, but she had not used it for a while and had no idea if it was still active.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, with not too many visitors. Frustrated and tired of waiting, she drank many cups of coffee and wrote a few things in her dairy.

Inadvertently, she found herself thinking about the man who had ditched her. That man was a cheap son of a bitch, and had she not been lucky enough to catch him red-handed, perhaps would have ruined her life. She’d just been waiting for him to propose when she had caught him. But now she was wiser.

It is easier to survive the storms of life with people you carefully choose to have around you.
She repeated the idea wordlessly, thinking about her father. It was possible to choose your friends and associates but not your family members.

Moody and absent-minded, she stared at her art in the large, empty hall. She was proud of her paintings, every one of them—they were the silent spectators of her tears, pains and victories. These works were the embodiment of her stories, celebrating the triumph of women and womanhood.
Scars don’t define the pain you have to suffer; scars are the trophies that celebrate your survival.

These paintings were Subah’s scars, and people or no people, visitors or no visitors, news coverage or no news coverage, these were the trophies of her survival and the survival of so many other women she had helped along the way.