the case, folks. Give her a detective’s shield and let her solve murders.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you even care what anyone writes about you?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
He started to walk again, head down.
He slipped his flask into his back pocket.
I watched him exit through the back door.
When he was gone, I gave a wave.
Good to see you again, Josh.
I wandered through the gallery and took notes and pictures of everything.
It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t supposed to be. I could humor Bel and write up a story about the artwork, what it looked like and what it made me feel. I could write about the people and conversations I heard. And if need be, I could write about my dark hallway encounter with Josh.
Dark and brooding, sipping from a flask - no, gulping from a flask - trying to chase away the sounds of those there to see him. When, in reality, all he wants is those there to see him through the artwork he’s created. Most don’t have the eyes or ability to see what’s really there. Too worried about a drink, a conversation, the smell of the person next to them, the kind of things that artwork should make a person forget about.
I was rolling my eyes in my head as I walked through the gallery one last time before leaving.
There was a part of me that thought about talking to the lady who owned the gallery. To try and get more information about Josh from her, but there was this feeling in the pit of my stomach that said to just leave. If Josh didn’t want to be bothered, so be it. In a way I owed him that much.
Bel would get her dumb story from me and I could tell Grace to never do that to me again.
If I wanted to write something, I would do it on my time. It would be my story to write. Definitely not an article. Not some non-fiction thing that would get posted on a blog and never seen.
I slipped into the night without being seen, turning alongside the outside of the building.
That’s when I saw something on the ground.
It looked like a folded-up piece of paper.
My curiosity stopped me, and I crouched down to pick it up. I unfolded it just once to see if there was any money or credit cards. Or identification. The storyteller in my mind had been unleashed for one night, so I felt jumpy as I wanted to open the piece of paper.
It’s a piece of paper, Amelia. It’s probably directions to the gallery. Or a printed receipt of something. It’s nothing.
Even still, I caught myself walking along the building, waiting for the right time to open it. All the while I continued to think about Josh. As though I was supposed to be chasing after him. To get some kind of story. Like he was a criminal and I was going to do what he said. Crack the case. Become a detective.
It was stupid.
Actually, it was embarrassing.
When I got to the back of the building, there was a small spark of something that said I’d see Josh again. That he would be outside, drinking, waiting.
It was empty.
Nobody there but me.
Me holding a letter.
I quickly opened the piece of paper to appease my mind.
That’s when I realized it was a letter.
To Delilah,
No matter how hard I try to forget, each time I close my eyes, I see you. I see you standing in a blue dress at the top of a hill on a spring afternoon, surrounded by daisies. The way you reached down and gently touched them, not wanting to touch too hard. Your heart floated around you faster than the clouds that made the wind grab your hair. You walked into a world you didn’t create but you create a world for everyone else to walk into.
I never knew what it felt like to love instantly until I saw you. There’s something so simple in that, but it’s not simple at all. Imagine you’re walking down a path. A perfectly clear path. There’s only one direction to go. Tall trees on your left. Taller trees on your right. And there’s this path. You just keep walking the path. You know if you go into the trees, you’ll get lost. So, you stay on the path.