I wasn't raped.

I wasn't.

But why in the name of all the saints did I now lean back on a bent right leg and pout? Why was I inviting a kiss?

From Tyler, chrissakes. And here, in a broken and derelict building? It wasn't exactly the honeymoon suite.

His ear was partially green.

His colour was wax.

His face was marked.

He wasn't exactly Brad Pitt.

I straightened, and hoped the cat's sudden hiss didn't punctuate the sudden shift.

But Tyler was oblivious; intently looking out the dirty window, bobbing his head like a boxer to find a view between the smudges.

"We'll paint," he said breathlessly.  He turned to look at me.

"Painting when you're supposed to is boring. Expected. It's like accounting or something. " There was a small spark in his eyes; a small sheen to his scratched face.

"But painting where you're not supposed to," he continued in a surging voice, "Is art and adventure at once.

"Creative frenzy. It's totally elsewhere."

He whirled around and bent low to the streaked pane. I could barely hear a train in the distance: tiny tin clicks. Tyler stood up and bolted to the corner cupboard. He rooted about,  and came up with a bouquet of six spray cans in his hands.

"Here," he smirked. He handed me three cans.

I noticed the colours on the plastic caps. Stupidly,  I also noticed his long, pale fingers.

I wasn't raped.

The train was approaching quickly, its call now one of muffled cymbals.

"We'd better hurry," I whispered loudly.

"Wait," said Tyler urgently. He stooped at the corner cupboard again.

Heavy footsteps slogged down the staircase. A strong male voice boomed from the darkness.

"Hold it! Stop right there!"

We were drenched by a sudden strong beam of light.





The End

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