The ceiling stared back at him in gentle stillness, sunlight streaking through the half-drawn blinds in trembling lines across the room.
Birds chirped.
He winced.
Not from the sound, but from the intrusive memory that came rushing in behind it.
The warmth at his side was the second reminder. A pale arm draped across his chest, fingertips idly tracing a shape she probably wasn't even aware of. Her breath was slow, calm, familiar. Too familiar.
Shit.
He turned his head.
There she was. Lia. Lying there like a dream he'd sworn to forget.
His dark skin glowed softly under the morning light. His braided hair was a messy tangle of shoelaces. His face—gentle, angelic, somehow almost childlike—contradicted the storm brewing behind his bright eyes.
He exhaled deeply. "This… was a mistake."
"Mm," she hummed, eyes still closed. "You said that last time. Right before kissing me like I was your last cigarette."
His lips curled into a reluctant smile. That damn voice. Sweet, slow, like velvet laced with arsenic. It slithered into his ear and made a nest.
He sat up, rubbing his hands through his hair, already feeling the itch of regret in his bones. "You're not even going to pretend you regret this?"
Lia yawned, stretching like a cat. "What's the point? You never mean your regrets. They're just little songs you hum to make your conscience feel poetic."
"God," he muttered, dragging himself out of bed.
She grinned sleepily. "You make self-destruction look like art."
He didn't respond. Couldn't.
Because she was right.
And that made him furious in the most intimate way.
He stood in the hallway outside the bedroom, back to the door, silently mouthing a hundred apologies he wouldn't say. His body wanted her, his heart feared her, and his soul—well, he left that part out of most things these days.
The bathroom mirror greeted him with the same look it always gave: curious disappointment.
He washed his face, letting the cold water bite him into lucidity. He brushed his teeth while humming a tune that had no melody. Then he carefully slicked his curls upward, fussing with them like an artist fine-tuning a brushstroke.
His house was his soul on display—unapologetic chaos and intimate curation.
The walls were textured with old film posters, half-finished canvas paintings, pinned-up poetry, scattered charcoal sketches. A naked mannequin stood near the window wrapped in tinsel and handwritten notes. On his bookshelf, a green cat figurine sat beside a cracked teacup holding dried roses.
As he buttoned his shirt—plum purple with an exaggerated collar—he spoke loudly enough for her to hear through the bedroom door.
"I have a gallery appointment. Big one. So I'd appreciate it if you'd… y'know…"
"Disappear?" she called sweetly.
He paused. "I was going to say 'let yourself out.' But yes. That."
The door opened. She stood there, wearing his shirt like a robe, her skin glowing like a painting titled 'Mistakes You'll Make Again.'
"Congratulations, by the way," she said, eyes twinkling. "I always said your art would take you far. Far away from your sanity."
He chuckled, biting his lip. "You're exhausting."
"You're addicted."
A pause.
They looked at each other, like old mirrors trying to recognize their own cracks.
He walked to the front door and opened it.
"Goodbye, Lia."
She kissed him on the cheek as she passed. "Break a heart, Eric."
"I already did."
And with that, the door clicked shut. The ghost of Melanie's perfume still clung to his collar, and he didn't know whether to roll down the window or let it haunt him a bit longer.
The city was drowsy with light, sun filtering lazily through the trees as he pulled out of his neighborhood. His old, loyal Mazda hummed beneath him like a quiet companion who knew too much.
The notification hit his phone just as he parked outside the Namwandwe Gallery, the vibrating buzz synced perfectly with the rev of his engine's sigh.
[Julian]: boys pull up tonight. got something wild. my place. trust me ;)
Eric raised an eyebrow and let out a slow laugh.
"Oh no… what's that idiot planning this time?" he muttered, pocketing his phone as he stepped into the high-ceilinged, marble-floored lobby of the gallery.
The walls here were clinical white. Spotlights hung like judgmental angels, illuminating paintings worth more than his car. The scent of oiled wood and rich incense danced with the chill of an overachieving AC system.
And then, like a well-timed sitcom entrance, the gallery owner appeared.
Mr. Laurence Mwalumba. A polished, portly man with silver hair swept back like a villain in an art-heist movie. His suit was impeccable—charcoal grey, accented with a red silk pocket square that screamed, "I've dined with presidents."
"Eric!" he beamed, opening his arms as if greeting a long-lost son. "Still so casual, even when standing on the edge of greatness."
Eric gave a smile, eyes flicking past Laurence to the tightly-lipped assistant behind him: Grace. She stood like a statue sculpted from administrative trauma and caffeine, clipboard in hand and judgement in her gaze.
"I dress for the fall," Eric said, offering a brief handshake. "You know, in case the greatness doesn't catch me."
Laurence laughed thunderously, oblivious. "Brilliant! See? This is why I say to everyone—'Who knew a mind like yours could come from here?'" He gestured vaguely, like all of Lusaka was a shit stain on his imported Italian shoes. "This place—no offense, of course—this country hasn't exactly birthed creativity before, yes?"
Eric's smile stiffened. He let out a small, dry laugh, the kind you release when your teeth are grinding just a little. "Yeah," he said. "Surprises all around."
Grace gave a clipped nod to Eric, which he returned with a mocking wink. She responded by making a note on her clipboard. Probably 'Flirting—again.'
***
By the time the guests had gathered, murmuring like swans in silk and linen, Eric stood before his covered piece. His nerves fluttered beneath his skin, but his face? Smiling. Always smiling.
When he pulled the cloth down, the room exhaled in unison.
The painting was alive.
A woman, arms outstretched, her face tilted back in wild laughter—bathed in bright, saturated hues. The background swirled with color: amber, violet, crimson. Around her were shadows of people holding her hands, hugging her, whispering into her ears. The scene was joyous. Euphoric. Too euphoric. Her pupils bloomed like flowers of static. Her teeth were just a bit too many. The longer one looked, the more her smile curved upward, as if happiness had contorted her into something no longer human.
Above and below the painting, written in precise, brushy strokes of coal-black paint, was a poem:
"She danced where the ceiling broke and stars leaked in—
Each hand that touched her peeled a layer of skin.
They sang of joy, and bled wine on her tongue,
Till the taste turned ash, and the song went unsung.
But joy, stretched thin on widening bone,
Reveals the feast is not your own.
The light grows bright, dissolves the frame,
And only buzzing remains."
Gasps. Whispers. Applause.
One woman near the back wiped her eye with a napkin. Another guest leaned in, whispering something about "feeling the madness."
Eric stood beside the piece with a hand in his pocket, the other gesturing lightly as he began his short speech.
"I don't make things for beauty. I make them to chase the last thing I felt before everything started to feel the same. Each piece is a question I'm afraid to ask myself, and every time I finish one… I realize I don't have the answer."
A pause. His smile returned. This time, gentler.
"But what matters most is that it's better than the last. Not prettier. Just closer to the truth."
More applause. Some nodding. Someone near the front whispered, "He's brilliant."
Eric just bowed slightly and stepped away from the piece.
But in his chest, something coiled. The painting looked back at him. That smile—the woman's joy slipping into something monstrous—felt familiar. Too familiar.
As he grabbed a drink and let the praise wash over him, he glanced at his phone again.
Julian had added another message.
[Julian]: Anselm's in. You're not chickening out, are you, Picasso?"
Eric's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He stared at his reflection in the dark screen.
He smiled.
[Eric]: Count me in.