D1 ☟ { B71A4 } ☟ WIP

IRIS TOMOVOY

"You seem rather young to be a museum curator,"  he said incredulously, trying to play off the remark as a coy tease rather than the blindingly bright badge of insecurity to pursue me that it really was. I glanced over at him, slipped the horn-rimmed glasses off my nose and wrung the bottom of my blouse  across the thick misty lenses. 

"Oh, I apologize. I'm sure we have an eighty-something year old around here somewhere who would better fit your liking?"

He laughed and began a cocky trot by my side, and I retreated two steps back for his every one step forward and blushed a mask of scarlet.

"No, I apologize. I'm sure you're perfectly more than adequate at what you do--"

"--her name is Millicent and she just came back from cataract surgery but I'm certain she can find what it is you're looking for."

Millicent really was quite lovely. She brought snickerdoodles for the entire staff every Tuesday and made me a "friendship quilt" to welcome me my first week on the job. In fact, everyone at the Bouvier Art Museum was idyllic. The receptionist Martin talked me into getting a pixie cut and taking salsa dancing classes with him and he insisted we go every week despite all the creases I etched into the tops of all his best shoes. His boyfriend was an accountant for the museum and a staunch man with very little tolerance for humor or leisure but absolutely bloomed once we invited him out for karaoke and got him drunk enough to sing. They were wonderful, and I couldn't be any more heartbroken about it.

"Miss--"

"Iris. However, I do have extensive knowledge on all pottery and sculpture pre-XXXXX era, so if you were looking for a particular work from then, I'm your best guide."

Everyone at work calls me "Owl" because my glasses magnify my eyes almost three-fold their size and I'm shy but once you get me started talking I have a slight problem stopping.

"I'm sure you--"

"However, I have just started a month ago so if you feel unsettled by my novelty and wish to enjoy your journey of art appreciation alongside that of a veteran, I whole-heartedly understand and would be happy to find Mil--"

So I told them that nickname couldn't be any more ill-fitting, because owls are relatively quite creature and one of the greatest predators of night and they told me to shut up and get a haircut.

"Miss Iris. Would you mind continuing this conversation over coffee?"

I cleared my throat and tucked a sheared tuft of mousy brown hair behind my ear, looking down at my clunky pilgrim shoes.

"Sir, I don't even know your name--"

Abraham Sanford.

"I'm Abraham Sanford."

I bit into my bottom lip, grabbing fistfuls of my itchy sweater and wanting the earth to swallow me whole and awaken me once I could socialize and converse like an acceptable human being.

"I-I d-don't really-y kn--"

Sanford was born in New Glover, age 32, officially a broker but has hands so dirty in the underground game holy water runs black through his fingers.

"I'm Abraham, I'm from a few blocks north of here in New Glover, I'm 28..."

Little liar.

"...and I am dying to take a pretty bookworm out to coffee today and listen about all those dead guys and their pretty bowls of fruit."

And he was found to have a thing for the nerdy, reserved, intelligent types.

I swallowed, "I get off at four?"

"Then I shall see you at four," he said, taking my shaking hand in his and planting a wet kiss on its back.

"O-okay..."

"Four sharp!" he shouted out across the marble as he headed for the exit, "Four sharp and please don't break my heart!"

I laughed.

He was dead by four-thirty.

Shot through the chest, a bit off to the left.