Fiction
Beauty is one of those things.
鈥淲hat do you do?鈥 He asked. I was nineteen, drunk in a bar, and I couldn鈥檛 tell the
truth.
鈥淚鈥檓 a curator,鈥 I lied.
鈥淪o you decide what art goes where?鈥
鈥淣o,鈥 I said, and now I was telling the truth. 鈥淚 look for beauty, and I collect
it when I find it.鈥
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There鈥檚 lights, cameras, but no action. Just you standing in the center against a nondescript wall. They tell you to look directly into the lens, don鈥檛 smile like that, and the flash is blinding then gone, then hands on your cuffed wrists, guiding you. People come in forgetting the rules: head down, walk fast. They walk in forgetting but then leave with a reminder, the cell bars clanking shut, the metal cold in their grip.
I still had to clean the bathroom. Pieces of him were dotted across every surface. A bottle of shampoo labeled two in one. Half full. A dirty razor on the soap dish. I wondered why a grown man had a razor in the shower. Was he seeing someone? Did he just like the feeling? Maybe it made him feel softer, kinder, more feminine.
鈥淪he passed away around five-thirty this evening.鈥
The social worker鈥檚 words are light and soft against Jack鈥檚 ear, the phone a heavy
rock upon his shoulder. She continues without pause. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry to be the one to tell
you this. Please take a minute if you need.鈥
Jack wants to tell the social worker that he hasn鈥檛 spoken to Kelly in years.