#addictivelybroken

Send “ø” for a late night text.

     "It's weird."

     "Oh, c'mon, Renée, humor me. What do you see?"

     "The weirdest three-legged-chair I've seen in my life and an egg. And hands, so many hands. Too many hands..."

     Barbara laughed as she sat on the floor next to her girlfriend. Legs crossed in a lotus position, baby blues looked up at the painting on the wall, Woman with a Head of Roses; a copy of course not the real deal.

     "Keep trying. How does it make you feel?"

     "I thought this was art, not a therapy session."

     "That's the beauty of it, it can be both."

     "It makes me angry."

     "Angry why?" the blonde laughed as she turned her head to face Renée.

     "Because I don't get it? Because it doesn't make sense? Because I'm gonna say something stupid and completely wrong?"

     "Nay, it's art. Don't think about it. You... feel it. No answer's wrong. Just tell me something about it."

     "Okay," the detective squinted and took a deep breath before she spoke again. "Burton. Tim Burton... like the Corpse's Bride. Like... the Monster of Frankenstein. No, no. Oh, I got it! This woman on the corner, she's like a fashion designer and she's trying to put together a new line of clothes because her business is falling apart. She needs something new, different, groundbreaking. She becomes obsessed and has a psychotic breakdown and starts killing people and using their parts for her designs and that one in the back is her nek--"

     "Shh," Barbara placed her index over Renée's lips and shook her head. The detective smiled and smacked her lips against the fingertip. The blonde chuckled and moved her hand to caress the other's cheek. "Really, Renée? I mean, you were right about the fashion thing, but there's this sexual aspect about it. Most of Dalí's paintings have that element, eggs, flowers, phallic symbols..."

     "You wanted me to say something and you also said there were no wrong answers." 

     "That's it. No more Dalí for you. We're gonna try Kahlo next time or Matisse... Botero"

{ addictivelybroken​ }

     After a few more back and forth texts, Renée had made it to Kaminsky’s Café and had ordered her regular: a Red Eye, one sugar, and sat at a table that allowed her to keep an eye on the door. Her eyes perked up every time she saw a blonde walking in. 

     She's not coming. She changed her mind. You did tell her she didn't owe you anything. When Barbara finally stepped in, she waved slightly, beckoning the petite teen to join her at the table.

"Happy birthday, Beba... I know, I know, you're not a baby anymore, but you'll always be my beba. Come on... open it!" paintingjustice

scarecrxw addictivelybroken montoyagcpd misskringle asoldierofdeath