#dropstitch

It is not her fault, she will tell herself later. He is close, too close really, for such a large open space, and how could she have known? That he would be there, right there, and that their eyes would meet, instantly, and hold, and all the breath leave her lungs, the connection hitting like a perfectly landed blow.

The bright overhead gallery lights are unforgiving, sparing no detail, and despite that he is beautiful. Because of that, even. His eyes are a warm brown behind a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses, the skin around them etched with feather-soft lines, and there is a small scar bisecting the curved line of his upper lip, standing out stark white against his tan skin. His hair is unbrushed, dark messy curls, and he is dressed casually, in a wrinkled beige button-down, the sleeves pushed up and rolled around his elbows. One of the buttons is coming loose, and it trails a thin line of dangling white thread.

She imagines painting him. She can’t help it - she is an artist, after all, and then there is where they are, and context is important in these things. She imagines what it might be like, the process of having him sit for her, deconstructing each feature into its most basic parts, his own personal geometry - the arch of his brow, the angle of his jaw, the exact position of each individual freckle on his skin, like mapping constellations - until she could draw him with her eyes closed, his body captured, written into hers like muscle memory. And then, because she really cannot help herself, because she may be an artist, but she is also a woman, and lonely - she imagines waking next to him in bed, watching in the early dawn light as he sleeps, tracing each relaxed line not with the eye of a painter, but a lover. Memorising not just the sight of him, but the smell, the taste, the weight of his body on hers. Absorbing him entirely, until the boundary between their individual bodies fails, collapses into a question of mere semantics, a philosophical problem.

It is both a very long time, and just a few seconds later, that she collects herself.

“I - ” she stutters, and hates herself. “Um, the painting,” she says, gesturing behind her as though he might not have noticed it, somehow.

“Yes,” he says, his voice surprisingly deep. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he is holding back a smile.

She turns back to the painting, and now they are side by side. He smells good, his cologne rich but not over-powering, and she realises that she is wet, and shifts uncomfortably, squeezing her thighs together underneath her long skirt.

“Beautiful,” he says, after a pause, but the side of her face burns under his gaze, and he is not looking at the painting as he says it.

They stand together, looking at the painting. No, not together, but, also. Together.

The gallery was noisy before, the large space echoing with footsteps and the low hum of whispered conversation, but now it seems to quieten, so all Clarke can hear is her own breath, the thundering of her heartbeat. Her phone vibrates in her shoulder bag, but she ignores it. Her mom, probably, sick of playing with Madi in the Children’s Zone, wondering where she is. She was never that kind of mother. Or grandmother, it seems.

Clarke ignores it.

She risks a glance at his face, but his expression is relaxed, giving nothing away. She’s got her right hand on her shoulder bag, holding it close to her, but her left hand hangs loosely at her side, only a few inches from his. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between their hands seems to lessen, and out of the corner of her eye she notices his hand twitch, his little finger flex, as if he might close the distance. She holds her breath.

“Bellamy!”

The shout rings out across the hall, and she jumps at the sound. Their fingers touch, for an instant.

She looks up at him. He looks as startled as she feels, but there is something else in his expression too. Guilt, and the sight of it wrenches her insides, like someone has wrapped their hands around her intestines and twisted their fists in opposite directions.

“I have to…” he says, his voice trailing off. He takes a deep breath, and then nods in the direction of the shout.

“Of course,” she replied. “Nice meeting you.”

“Yes.” He nods, and then opens his mouth as though he is going to say something else. Closes it, as if he has thought better of it, whatever it was. And then he is moving.

Leaving.

Gone.

Something painful catches in her, a sharp pain just under her ribs and suddenly she’s crying. Like when you stub your toe in exactly the right(wrong) spot and tears spring to your eyes before the pain even registers, someone rushing over to ask if you’re okay. Except she is alone, and when she looks over to the doorway she sees a woman waiting for him, tall and graceful. Brunette. Beautiful, and nothing like Clarke.

The woman looks up, and their eyes meet across the room for a split-second before she is looking away again, he gaze skipping disinterestedly over Clarke.

“Momma!” she hears then, and turns just in time for Madi to run headlong into her, wrapping her skinny arms around her thighs. Clarke bends down and scoops her up, hiding her wet eyes in her daughter’s hair.

“Who is that?” her mother asks, reaching them a moment later. “Do you know him?”

Clarke turns back towards the doorway, still holding Madi. He - Bellamy, she knows his name now - is watching her, his expression unreadable. His eyes flick to the child in her arms, and then back to her, and then the woman next to him tugs on his hand, and he turns away.

Was it her imagination, she will think later that evening, lying in bed with Madi snuggled tight and sleeping against her, or did he hesitate, just for a moment, before he walked away? Did something in his eyes flicker, a muscle in his sharp jaw twitch, before he turned, slow and reluctant? Did he pause, his feet suddenly heavy, almost too heavy to lift, a struggle to make himself walk away?

It would be unreasonable to expect the universe to work perfectly all the time. It is a large machine, after all, with so many small and moving parts, and well out of warranty, held together with little more than tape and super glue, and a good dash of hope. Everyone crossing their fingers and holding their breath, hoping that it won’t sputter and fail and grind to a halt, like driving an old car down a country road, ready at any moment to have to get out and push. If there is anyone in charge - and that, Clarke thinks, is doubtful in itself - they have proved themselves to be an entirely incompetent creator. It is only natural to expect a few hanging threads, a few loose screws, rifling frantically through the instruction manual as the whole thing wobbles dangerously in front of you, threatening to collapse at any moment.

A few dropped stitches.

Clarke smiles brightly at Madi, hoping that her eyes don’t shine too brightly under the gallery lights when she turns back and replies to her mother.