Work of Art
Authors: Monica Alexander
Work of Art
By Monica Alexander
Copyright 2013 by Monica Alexander
Cover Image: (c) wacker / www.fotosearch.com Stock Photography
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or personals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
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Table of Contents
Harper
“Excuse me,” I said impatiently to the dark-haired guy sitting in the aisle seat engrossed in a book with some
pensive looking guy’s face on the cover.
It looked like a self-help book. And this guy looked like he read self-help, but only the kind that was inspiring and therapeutic and enlightening. He was the kind of person who no doubt started hi
s sentences with ‘According to *insert name of self-appointed enlightenment guru here*, blah, blah, blah. I already didn’t like him.
Of course I had just spent the last few minutes struggling to fit my carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, and he hadn’t so much as glanced up, so I had a reason not to like him. But
if he started spouting out one-liners about finding inner peace and learning life lessons and how to find hope in the face of defeat, I might smack him.
It
was going to be a headphones on flight, no doubt.
“Excuse me,” I said again, a little louder, and with just that much more annoyance in my voice.
The pointy-faced, overly gelled guy looked up at me and raised his tweezed eyebrows in question, as if there was some mystery as to why I was standing there staring at him. The line of people impatiently waiting behind me couldn’t have been an indicator.
I
watched his eyes dart from my nose to my exposed right ear to my neck, and his lips curled into a distasteful sneer as he took in the small hoops and ink decorating them. I was just the kind of person guys like him hated. I watched the judgment build in his eyes, and I wanted to laugh, because I’d dealt with small people like him my whole life, and if he thought he could make me feel bad with one look, he was sorely mistaken.
“That’s my seat,” I said, pointing unceremoniously to the empty spot next to him.
Self-help Guy didn’t say anything. He just acted like moving was the biggest inconvenience of his life and finally stood, stepping out into the aisle, so I could squeeze past him.
“You know, self-mutilation is usually a sign of a mental illness.”
I looked up from where I was shoving my messenger bag and my jacket under the seat in front of me and fixed my gaze on him, trying not to let my eyes go wide. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
“Well, I’m sure you know, since it’s bound to have happened to you from time to time, that making rude, judgmental comments to strangers is a surefire way to get you punched in the nose.”
He laughed. “Your generation is abominable.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. I wasn’t sure our generations were that far apart.
Then I decided he just wasn’t worth my time.
Right before shoving my ear buds in my apparently mutilated ears, I said to him, “Thank you so much for your unsolicited input. My abominable generation applauds you for being a dick.”
Then I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. And just before I could turn my music on, I heard someone laughing a loud, raucous laugh and looked up to see a broad-shouldered guy with almost black hair, wearing a suit and clutching his iPhone in one hand stopped in the aisle next to our row. Arrogant Guy and I turned to look at him at the same time, and I pulled one ear bud out to better hear what he was about to say, figuring he was going to chastise my seatmate for being a giant ass.
“That’s my seat, buddy,” he said instead, pointing to the one next to me that was filled by my new best friend.
“No, it’s my seat. I’m in 9B.”
“Then you’re in the wrong seat,” the guy in
the aisle told him. “This is 8B
.”
“Well, I’m already here, so why don’t you just sit in my seat,
and I’ll stay here,” Arrogant Guy said, settling further into his seat.
Please change seats. Please change seats,
I silently begged.
“Sorry man, but that’s my girlfriend, and we want to sit together.”
Arrogant Guy looked over at me with disdain, no doubt wondering how a freak like me could ever date a guy so normal looking.
I just grinned at him and then looked up at the guy standing patiently in the aisle. “Thanks, baby,” I told him
sweetly, as Arrogant Guy let out the loudest sigh I’d ever heard and made a big production of gathering up his stuff so he could move one row back.
Good riddance.
I started to stick my ear bud back in my ear as my new seat buddy sat down. “Nice ink,” he said, his eyes lighting up as they followed the trail of butterflies flowing down my right arm.
“Thanks,” I said, knowing it sounded crisp, but I just wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and he looked chatty.
Aside from my encounter with the asshole now seated behind me, I was just in a bad mood after having to endure a shitty couple of days with my mother’s friends who all looked at me as if I was a freak, none of them apparently having ever gotten the message that it was impolite to stare, and diversity was a good thing.
I felt like telling them, ‘Hey, sorry for
spoiling your day by showing up at my mother’s funeral and reminding you all that I exist, but I do, and you can get over it while I take the time to say goodbye to the woman who always acted like my jealous friend and never like the mother figure I probably needed. Hey, that’s probably why she overdosed on prescription meds at age forty-six like you all most likely will. Rock on.’
“I’m Brandon,”
the guy next to me said, sticking his hand out for me to shake.
I took it cautiously.
The way he was lustfully gazing at me told me that although he was charming, he was probably also a preppy jerk who wanted to see if he could go slumming for a few hours.
Been there, done th
at. Too many times to count. I’d always had a penchant for preppy guys, but I’d gotten burned pretty badly by one when I was younger, so now I tried to steer clear of them altogether. Although I still gave in to moments of weakness from time to time. That was not going to happen in this case.
“
I’m Harper,” I said, as I reached behind my head and pulled out the pin holding my hair back in a twist.
“Wow, you’re just like unraveling a really hot present,” the guy blurted out as my long hair tumbled over my shoulders.
“
Screw you,” I told him and unceremoniously turned toward the window.
I’d dyed the ends of my brown hair hot pink the week before, not knowing I’d be returning to the stuffy, pretentious town
in the suburbs of Boston where I grew up and where tattoos, piercings, and unnatural hair colors were definitely frowned upon. Well I had all three, so for the two days I’d been there, just to lessen the staring, I’d hidden the color in up-dos and wore long sleeves, even though it was the end of June and brutally hot most of the time. My mother’s friends weren’t shy about voicing their opinions, so I figured the less they had to judge me for, the better.
I’d even taken out the multiple piercings in my ears and my nose ring, but I couldn’t hide the tattoo of
stars that started behind my right ear and trailed down the side of my neck – and that caused enough waves in and of itself. If only I’d let them see the artwork decorating my arms, stomach, and back. It would have been scandal city – bigger than the one I’d caused in high school which prompted me to move across the country and never look back in the first place.
Now, the last thing I needed was some guy hitting on me during a five hour flight.
“No, seriously. I like your look,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I shrugged him off. I wasn’t a big fan of people touching me.
“I know your type. Don’t go there,” I said dryly.
“And what type is that?”
I rolled my eyes. “The type I don’t waste my time on.”
“Look, I know you can’t tell from looking at me now since I just got off work, but we’re not so different,” he said, lifting up his pant leg to reveal a
large blue and red tattoo that was half demon, half angel and had red and blue flames surrounding it. It was pretty bad-ass.
I gave him the briefest of smiles. “Great. We have something in common. You got at tattoo over Spring Break too.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” he said good-naturedly, and I had to give him credit for being so brazen. Most people didn’t talk that way to me when I was giving them the cold shoulder. It was sort of refreshing. “My whole back is done too, as well as some other strategic locations. I work in banking, so I need to keep up appearances.”