I wasn't raped.
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.