Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel by Thea Atkinson Page A
Authors: Thea Atkinson
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imagined it pulsing like a beating heart as it waited to be opened and read and reread and pondered over. He nearly started to run down the street as he thought about it. His breath clawed at his ribcage. He had to get to his machine.
William struggled to get past crowds as they strolled along the sidewalk. Frantic because progress was slow, he stopped. There had to be a quicker way home. These outsiders couldn't possibly walk any slower. What the hell were they doing out in the middle of the afternoon; they should be at work, not conspiring to keep him from his computer. Their conversations came to him, crisp, clear, broken off like icicles from a slanted roof. He couldn't stand the invasive words that stabbed his mind with ruthless frequency. He needed off the street. He needed sanctuary. The words had to stop.
As if a prayer had screamed its way to heaven, his vision caught a sign across the street. He knew immediately what CAFE AU LAZE meant. It was a sign. Thank God, it was a sign. He'd stop in for an espresso while he scabbed their free wiifii It would do until he was calm enough to continue home.
Paying his five dollars to the counter clerk, William picked up his delicate espresso cup and settled into a booth. He pulled out his smartphone and tapped open his browser. He wasn't home, but he already felt the waves of sweat subside.
He took a deep breath. Much better. Typing quickly, he entered the login and password. The coffee would at least give him something to do while he waited, and he braved the edge of the cup and the surface of the liquid with a tiny bit of fleshy lip. Hot. Way too hot.
A painting on the far wall caught his eye. He thought immediately of Hannah.
She'd enjoy it, he quickly realised. Done in oil, it showed a close quarters forest scene where the sunlight cast shadows on tree trunks. And there in the shadows created by ridges of bark and dappled light, stared faces: young faces, old faces, faces in turmoil.
His breath came quicker.
He'd seen it before. He'd watched it come to being. At one time, he'd hoped his face would be there in the shadows like he was in the shadows, watching, waiting, hoping to be seen. It was hers. He knew it.
William jumped from his chair. He needed to see the plate beneath the canvas. He had to look at the signature in the oil. The clerk stepped in his way.
"What's the trouble?"
"That painting... Where did you get that painting?"
"Actually, the artist paints live on the net. One of our regulars found the site and recommended it. He bought the painting and donated it to the cafe. Nice, isn't it?"
William couldn't speak.
"I can give you the URL if you'd like to check it out. It'll cost, but it's worth every penny."
Trying not to scrabble at the clerk's chest with his nails the way his breath scrabbled like an angry lion at his own, William shook his head. His voice won out over all those that leaped like lords-a-dancing in his head. "No. I don't need the address."
He hurried back to his chair. The coffee had acquired a brown scum that matched the mood that blanketed him. William wanted to throw his phone across the room because it wouldn't bring up fast enough Hannah's opening page. More than that, he wanted to trumpet his rage when he realised the painting that was nearly complete on the screen, the one Hannah painted right there in front of him, was the exact same painting on the far wall where he sat. She didn't paint a second copy. It was the same painting.
He zoomed in the screen, staring at her naked back, looking for the daisy chain of bites he'd left on her skin like petals taking flight.
The skin was clean.
Voices, angry, vibrant voices threw themselves against the inside of his skull. Accompanying those voices came the rush of floodwaters clearing any semblance of medicinal fog. His own version of Akashic records, a sort of mental index card box or, Book of Life, allowed imaginary thumbs to flip at light speed through the file.
"The artist paints
William struggled to get past crowds as they strolled along the sidewalk. Frantic because progress was slow, he stopped. There had to be a quicker way home. These outsiders couldn't possibly walk any slower. What the hell were they doing out in the middle of the afternoon; they should be at work, not conspiring to keep him from his computer. Their conversations came to him, crisp, clear, broken off like icicles from a slanted roof. He couldn't stand the invasive words that stabbed his mind with ruthless frequency. He needed off the street. He needed sanctuary. The words had to stop.
As if a prayer had screamed its way to heaven, his vision caught a sign across the street. He knew immediately what CAFE AU LAZE meant. It was a sign. Thank God, it was a sign. He'd stop in for an espresso while he scabbed their free wiifii It would do until he was calm enough to continue home.
Paying his five dollars to the counter clerk, William picked up his delicate espresso cup and settled into a booth. He pulled out his smartphone and tapped open his browser. He wasn't home, but he already felt the waves of sweat subside.
He took a deep breath. Much better. Typing quickly, he entered the login and password. The coffee would at least give him something to do while he waited, and he braved the edge of the cup and the surface of the liquid with a tiny bit of fleshy lip. Hot. Way too hot.
A painting on the far wall caught his eye. He thought immediately of Hannah.
She'd enjoy it, he quickly realised. Done in oil, it showed a close quarters forest scene where the sunlight cast shadows on tree trunks. And there in the shadows created by ridges of bark and dappled light, stared faces: young faces, old faces, faces in turmoil.
His breath came quicker.
He'd seen it before. He'd watched it come to being. At one time, he'd hoped his face would be there in the shadows like he was in the shadows, watching, waiting, hoping to be seen. It was hers. He knew it.
William jumped from his chair. He needed to see the plate beneath the canvas. He had to look at the signature in the oil. The clerk stepped in his way.
"What's the trouble?"
"That painting... Where did you get that painting?"
"Actually, the artist paints live on the net. One of our regulars found the site and recommended it. He bought the painting and donated it to the cafe. Nice, isn't it?"
William couldn't speak.
"I can give you the URL if you'd like to check it out. It'll cost, but it's worth every penny."
Trying not to scrabble at the clerk's chest with his nails the way his breath scrabbled like an angry lion at his own, William shook his head. His voice won out over all those that leaped like lords-a-dancing in his head. "No. I don't need the address."
He hurried back to his chair. The coffee had acquired a brown scum that matched the mood that blanketed him. William wanted to throw his phone across the room because it wouldn't bring up fast enough Hannah's opening page. More than that, he wanted to trumpet his rage when he realised the painting that was nearly complete on the screen, the one Hannah painted right there in front of him, was the exact same painting on the far wall where he sat. She didn't paint a second copy. It was the same painting.
He zoomed in the screen, staring at her naked back, looking for the daisy chain of bites he'd left on her skin like petals taking flight.
The skin was clean.
Voices, angry, vibrant voices threw themselves against the inside of his skull. Accompanying those voices came the rush of floodwaters clearing any semblance of medicinal fog. His own version of Akashic records, a sort of mental index card box or, Book of Life, allowed imaginary thumbs to flip at light speed through the file.
"The artist paints
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