They were coming out of her skin in a familiar pattern across the torso.
I would never compare myself to art, never in the slightest, but it was hard to convince myself that this wasn’t a sculpture of ... parts of me.
All the humility in the world couldn’t compete with the idealistic vision of a lover. To him, I was art. But only to him, and I believed that was enough.
And just like that, as if to remind me of my true belonging, a memento mori beside her.
A table ... full of knickknacks, tools, cloth. And Vincent’s silver cigarette holder.
I picked it up, rolling it in my palm. My fingerprints smudged over the patina of past hands, reflection distorted from dents and other proof of love. Only the most prized treasures were used so reverently. The dust collected in the identifyingV.M.C.etched on the flat of it.
I almost felt warm until I looked closer at the pile. The familiar item wasn’t enough to distract me from the rest of the strange collection.
Each item seemed odder than the last. Belts and buckles, various sizes of cigarette cases, rosaries, artisan hooks from walking canes.Though, none of these gave me any heartache ... not until I saw the chatelaine.
At first I thought it was my own. No, of course it wasn’t. Mine was on my hip, I was touching it right then. This belonged to someone else.
The back of my scalp became hot, right where the spine connected to my head, threatening to let it roll off.
No, this means nothing. These are knickknacks. He collects.
Still ... this chatelaine wasn’t like mine. It was nicer. Too expensive to be discarded, too polished to accept it was forgotten. A souvenir from another woman?
Like there was a last-minute pull, I dug through the pile again. Knacks clattered to the floor, tangled together, screaming for me to stop looking.
There they were.
Vincent’s keys.
I grabbed the small loop full of tiny assorted keys on a large round ring. I recognized them from every time his long fingers gripped them, fiddled with them when he was trying to fake a confident stride—which was often. I suppose it reminded him of the world he held in his palm. And now it was in mine.
“You smell like earth.” Lorelei’s lip curled into a sneer.
“My husband touches me with the same hands he sculpts with.” The muscle in my jaw twitched. I couldn’t help a small smile. “I suppose that is why you smell of cheap booze?”
“You know what cheap booze smells like?” She gasped. “Maybe your pauper is rubbing off on you.”
“I’m sure you wish yours would rub you off.”
“Not for free, he won’t.”
“Is this really how you’re going to act?” I hissed, my arm tightening on hers.
“I’m not acting any different than you,” she replied innocently, twirling her parasol above us. On her arm, a new purse. The handle most notably unscathed. “Perhaps we both bring our men out. Long walks are encouraged when keeping dogs in shape.”
“Arkady isn’t a dog.”
“Yes,Petre, I know he isn’t arealdog,” she scoffed. “Can I not tell jokes now? Have you become that soft?”
“Perhaps I’ve outgrown your humor.” I shrugged. “Or it could just be that your joke is in bad taste.”
“Like you would knowgoodtaste.”
I dug my heels into the pebbled walkway, tugging her arm back. “Why do we keep doing this? Why are we going in circles?”
“It’s a promenade, we walk one big circle.”
“Don’t get smart with me, child,” I snapped.
