illicit affairs

clement oseguera buchanan. father, mayor, husband. we did it joe, we did it

[clementbuchanan]

qvinnwildc​:

Here, harbour lights glowed ethereal, like summer’s thick-heat fireflies, but kindled in cooler gusts of New Year. Quinn didn’t mind getting lost in the darkness blanketing Monleon’s Last Friday, frame rocking in languid sway as her hawk gaze basked in colours of reds, blues, greens from shopfront windows pouring onto Main Street’s cement sidewalks, allowing the anchor to dim her own mainstream grin in exchange for her natural foxlike slant- already slick from a few glasses of bubbly from the art gallery. Fingers, too, slick enough to purchase a print from the gallery as a conversation piece– her own sordid humour roamed over the detail of abstract shape, figures. No, Quinn Wilde wouldn’t stand for pretty paintings of patchwork landscapes, or realist porcelain-housed flowers- she proclaimed to be allergic to such soft style. Thus, she had her latest print wrapped, and placed under arm as she meandered through store fronts. Butter-blonde curls bounced as she rounded a corner, an accidental collide with a passerby, stuck in crescendo of items hitting concrete, followed by a magnificent rip of her latst purchase’s canvas. 

“Afraid you don’t win any prizes for that aim ” she retorted after a beat, leaning down to pick up her print, unable to keep from laughing as she held up its limp, tattered form. “But maybe this piece is improved - which way’s the proper top?” She flipped it, summer bros scrunched in a teasing concern, “Better yet, what do you think it’s supposed to convey?”

It was like watching a train-wreck. The camera shudders as a polaroid frame pops out, shaken in the humidity laden air, fading from black to navy-tinted clarity. Lost in the murkiness of the photograph, one ill-time stumble creates a domino effect of little accidents and then –– a crash, defeating. Like china rolling around in the underbelly of the Titanic, the sound of glass and wood shattering on the beer-soaked curbside stops Clement in his tracks, a familiar face paired to the scene of the accident coaxing his strides toward her. He bends to gather the canvas in his hand, a warm smile directed toward the (obvious tourist) who fell headlong into the arms of Monleon’s most notorious news hostess, a litany of apologies already primed on his lips. “You make friends left and right here, don’t you, Wilde?” His lips cleave into a smirk. “C’mon. I’ll bargain with the owner to get you a new one –– he owes me a favour, anyway. He’d shudder to think a piece of his own collection was left damaged.”