"What happened?" she asks.
"Other photographers. I got rid of them."
"What? What happened to not drawing attention to ourselves."
"What can I say? I’m a hypocrite. The assholes needed to leave, only threats work on pricks like them. Now, do your thing, baby," I say as she smiles and gives me a hard kiss on the lips.
For the rest of the day, that’s how it goes, moving from a couple of scenes we picked up on the scanner, to locations where there is life moving around us so she can draw. All while I protect her and keep her space safe.
When we get home, I take her against the wall in the hallway, unable to control myself any longer.
"Mine," I growl.
"Yours," she gasps.
"Always."
"Always."
After two weeks, we have a solid routine. Her portfolio has grown considerably, with so many amazing pieces for her to choose from. Everything is starting to settle into place.
One evening, Roxy's in my lap on the couch, both of us exhausted from a long day of searching and our bellies now stuffed with pizza. She turns to look at me, her eyes serious.
"Thank you for making this possible. For protecting me and letting me be exactly who I am."
"You don't have to thank me, baby."
"Maybe not, but thank you."
I kiss her softly as she snuggles in closer to me, her breathing settling to a content rhythm. We have finally cracked the code of what we needed to make our lives possible, to be worth living.To be able to maneuver our lives that comply with social norms around our darkest secrets and desires.
Together, we're unstoppable.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROXY
The cemetery is quiet when I arrive, the funeral service already underway at a grave near the main entrance. I park the car at a respectful distance and watch from behind a cluster of oak trees, my sketchbook already open in my lap. I'm not here to intrude, only to observe.
The mourners are dressed in black, clustered around the grave like dark flowers. A priest speaks words I can't hear from this distance, his gestures solemn and practiced. The casket is simple, polished wood that catches the afternoon light.
I don't draw the service itself as that feels too invasive. Instead, I wait.
Twenty minutes later, the service ends. The mourners begin to disperse, moving slowly back toward their cars. Some linger, embracing each other, offering quiet condolences. Others leave quickly, as if they can't bear to stay in this place of grief any longer.
But one woman remains.
She's elderly, I would say she is seventy, maybe older. She is dressed in a black coat despite the mild San Diego weather. Her hair is white, pulled back in a neat bun, I would call her elegant.She stands at the edge of the grave, staring down at the casket as the cemetery workers begin to lower it into the earth.
I watch her for a long moment, then begin to sketch. The curve of her shoulders, hunched with despair and loss. The way her hands clutch a handkerchief, twisting it unconsciously. The angle of her head, tilted down, as if she's speaking to the person in the casket. I can feel the torment from where I sit, hidden under a tree.
This is what I'm drawn to, the human connection to loss. The way grief reshapes a body, makes it smaller, more fragile. I never understood it before, as I’d never experienced a love or connection that had truly made me feel anything. But now, I think it’s something I can understand, as the thought of losing Dom kills me inside. The very concept of grief hits me differently now. It hurts to the bone, but I like the pain, because it makes me feel, lets me know I can feel.
My pencil moves across the page, capturing the details. The texture of her beautiful coat, that has a pretty brooch attached to the left lapel. I can’t quite see the shape from here, but it’s tasteful with hints of gold. I catch the way the wind catches a strand of her hair on the left side of her face. The absolute stillness of her posture, as if she's been turned to stone.
She stays for nearly an hour, barely moving.
The cemetery workers finish their job and leave as the other mourners are long gone. But she remains, standing vigil over the fresh grave.
