Art hated her name. It was a reoccurring thought she had many times, as daydreaming always seemed to lead back to this point. She couldn’t help it; she wasn’t one for attention — especially as a painter.
“You create art, yet hate Art.”
“Is that your real name, or some sort of starving artist alias?”
Once a boy had tried to charm her with, “You are Art.”
Regretfully after, she had let him kiss her.
Ironically, in one of her sketch journals, she had begun writing down all the quotes she had thus far heard from her name. On the cover, she had painted in angry bold blocked letters, “NOT ART.”
Art sat in the bus, nervously. Her glorious yellow chariot seemed to be taking longer than normal to get to her destination. She rolled her eyes, half annoyed at her self, half impatient with the uncooperative weather. The rain drizzled patiently down the window beside her. She leaned her forehead against the cold, damp glass and watched each droplet race downwards. She tried to choose the bead of water that would make it all the way down the window first.
After a few unsuccessful attempts at trying to distract her thoughts, Art wondered what her visit to the doctor’s would entail.
She felt awkward about the situation. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been to the gynecologist before, for her annual checkups. But this was different. She thought further back to two weeks ago. The weather had been the same, it’s the only reason she could recall the memory so vividly. Embarrassingly enough, it had been her twin brother who had convinced her to take a pregnancy test. So there she was, locked up alone in his apartment while he was away at work. He had bought the test for her and had it set on the counter inside the bathroom.
Why the hell am I doing this? She had been repeating the question over and over to her self. But she took the test anyway, because she was sure of her virtue. Above all else, Art loved experience. However, her idea of experience seemed to differ from others. She admired the experience of not experiencing. Defiantly enough, she had initially rejected her brother’s help, claiming her status as a virgin proudly.
But the test came up positive, and her brother became negative about her declaration.
“Nice book you’ve got there, Not Art.”
Art blinked over her dried eyes a few times, so that the person in front of her came to focus.
“Can I sit by you?”
Art nodded nonchalantly, and scooted over for her friend, Hades.
“What’s up Hade?” Art asked automatically, absentmindedly, anxiously.
“Going in for work, actually. This weather is kind of suiting, don’t you think?”
Art thought about it for a silent moment, and began laughing hysterically and uncontrollably.
Hade was a mortician — and he loved his name.