UNKNOWN: I’d love to take you to Navy Pier at sunset sometime. It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as you. -Hopefully Yours
My eyebrows cinch until they ache.
They’re all from different numbers.
I scroll through my contact list and discover that each of the numbersdidsave, each beneath the heading “Levi.” I never thought to check my contact list, only assuming the water damage was at fault.
There are three “Levi’s” already in my phone, and none of them are him. What, does the creep own four different phones? Some crazy texting software?
Nothing makes sense, and I’m at a loss.
I’m still dumbfounded two days later as I stand in front of a Pulse Fitness dressing room mirror. It’s Monday morning, and my hot yoga class ran late. I showered and french-braided my hair into two heavy plaits in record time, because in addition to being mega creeped out over H.Y., I refuse to watch from that crusty chair as Brandon gloats all over the nice desk.
I scurry to the Pulse Fitness door in my work slacks and cream overcoat, making sure my pepper spray is accessible from the front pocket of my duffel bag.
As if my best friend somehow senses my frantic energy, I get a text from her.
AMANTHA: Val just told me Brandon isn’t coming in to work today. Did you punch him again?!
AMANTHA: Never mind. Val just told me he’s sick. But still, you should try to stop punching people.
KATE: It was a BOXING lesson. I was supposed to punch him!
AMANTHA: Fair.
I chew my lip, wondering if I should tell Amantha about H.Y. I don’t want to freak her out when she has so much going on, but I’m also mildly terrified and would really like some support.
I step outside with a heavy sigh, and the shining sun tries to lift my spirits. My long cream overcoat swishes against my black pantsuit as I walk in my pointed boots. The winter air is still biting, but it’s bearable. I decide to walk the twenty minutes to the museum.
At least I won’t have to race Brandon to the good chair in our office if he’s out sick. I wonder what he has. Probably just a cold or something, but a teensy, tiny, totally-unreasonable-and-unwarranted part of me worries if it’s something more. Surely he’s got people to take care of him. Doesn’t he? Although I can’t quite picture Tucker knowing how to make soup.
Rolling my eyes, I remind myself that Brandon is a big boy. He can take care of himself and will likely be back to work and annoying me in no time.
I take a shortcut through the winding sidewalks of Jackson Park, my eyes skipping over the skeletal cherry blossom trees. I catch a glimpse of a guy with a black beanie and sunglasses strolling along behind me. A prickle of paranoia in my gut spreads like thick oil, coating my rational thinking. I pick up the pace, trying to appear nonchalant. I don’t check to see if his steps follow suit.
Rounding the corner, I curse as I almost collide with a metal scaffolding pole. The man in the beanie strolls around me with casual strides, and his thick mustache is evidence enough that he’s a perfect stranger.
Clutching a hand to my chest, I look up at the metal scaffolding to find a person so bundled in layers that I can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man. I take a few steps back and take in the mural the artist is working on. It’s a technicolor face of a lion, and it’sstunning. Even incomplete, it’s giving me chills.
The lion’s bright yellow mane is streaked with magenta, lime green, and orange. Its jaws are open, exposing razor sharp canines and a hot pink tongue. Beady eyes glitter like night as the fierce lion glares over the city.
Street art is part of why I adore urban living. Expression is everywhere, from the fashion people wear to the sidewalks and skyscrapers.
This epic display of color is enough to steady my breathing and relax my fists.
I call up to the puffy-clad human, “That looks incredible!”
The pom-pom on the top of their beanie flops over as they turn their head. A white-bearded man breaks into a huge, lopsided grin.
“Well thank ya, pretty lady. If you like this one, you should see the one I did on West Belmont!”
An idea begins to percolate in the back of my mind. “Do you sell the rights to your murals?”
I think he shrugs, but it’s hard to tell with all the layers he’s wearing. “Depends. Some building managers buy ‘em, and others just want a pretty picture to get people in their store. Either way, I get to dothis.” He sloshes a can of neon orange paint onto the bricks, letting it artistically drip over the lion’s chest.
My chuckle puffs into a white cloud, but my wheels are spinning. “Do you mind if I take a picture?”
“Snap away, pretty lady.” The eccentric man salutes my phone while I click a picture.
