@ophelicjames
he fiddled with the dials on the radio, finding the usual station that they allowed to fill the space between them. the windows were down and cool air found its way into the car as they sat in the near-empty parking lot, their usual order of fries and shakes in their laps. as he got more and more involved in the art scene, there were certain faces roman found himself repeatedly running into. ophelia james was one of them--probably the only one who’d been kind enough to put up with his questions, his probing, his confusion. she’d helped him put together a few of the pieces he’d been struggling with, though roman liked to think he’d figured out most of it on his own. muses. immortality? it was still a hard pill to swallow, and in the spaces of silence that stretched out between the two of them, this was usually what he thought of.
eventually he looked over towards her, one hand idly tapping on the dash as he asked, “jackson pollock?” another name, another guess. a game they played--a compromise between wanting to know more but not wanting all the answers handed to him on a silver platter. roman liked to try and figure out which of history’s ‘greatest minds’ had actually been bonded. “how ‘bout frida kahlo?”
