Frost and Firefly

The thing about being a cliché is that you never know you're in one until you're standing in the middle of it, holding a paintbrush, staring at the back of a woman who looks like she could kill a man with her jawline alone.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

My name is Maya Chen and I paint murals for a living. Not the kind you see on the side of a bank downtown, all corporate and beige and approved by six committees. I paint the kind that make people stop their cars in the middle of the street and roll down their windows and yell things like *holy shit, look at that*.

That's the goal, anyway. Sometimes people just yell *get out of the road*.

Today I'm in the lobby of Kessler Dynamics, which is a tech company that does something with data and algorithms and probably world domination, I don't know. What I do know is that they hired me to paint a forty-foot mural on their lobby wall, and I've been here since six in the morning, and I'm covered in more paint than the wall is.

The wall is supposed to be an abstract representation of innovation. That's what the email said. *Innovation*. I hate that word. I hate it so much that I decided to paint something that actually looks like innovation, which to me is a bunch of colors exploding outward from a single point, chaotic and messy and alive.

The woman standing behind me has been there for approximately four minutes. I know this because I counted. Not on purpose. It's just that when someone radiates that much disapproval, your brain starts keeping track of things.

"You're dripping on the floor."

Her voice is low. Flat. The kind of voice that doesn't ask questions, just makes statements and expects the world to rearrange itself accordingly.

I turn around, and there she is. Tall. Black suit. Hair pulled back so tight it looks painful. Eyes that are doing that thing where they're looking at you but also through you, like you're a spreadsheet with an error in cell B7.

"Hi!" I say, because I'm the kind of person who says hi to everyone, even people who look like they want to set me on fire with their mind. "You must be Ms. Kessler. I'm Maya. I'm doing your mural."

"I know who you are." She glances at the floor, where there is indeed a small puddle of cerulean blue. "I'm asking you to stop dripping on it."

"Oh, that's just a drop cloth situation. I've got one in my van. I was going to put it down, I just got excited about the colors and forgot."

She blinks. Once. Slowly. Like she's processing a language she doesn't speak.

"Excited," she repeats.

"Yeah. You know. When something makes you feel good and you want to keep doing it?"

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not a smile. More like her face is trying to remember what a smile is and failing.

"I'm familiar with the concept," she says. "I'd like you to be familiar with the concept of not damaging company property."

Okay. So she's one of those.

I've met her type before. Not her specifically, obviously, because I would remember meeting someone who looks like she was carved out of marble and then dressed by a stylist who hates joy. But her type, yes. The ones who think art is a line item on a budget. The ones who say things like *can you make it more corporate* and *I don't think the colors should be so loud*.

Loud. As if color has a volume knob.

"Look," I say, and I wipe my hands on my jeans, which doesn't help because my jeans are also covered in paint, "I'll get the drop cloth. I'll be careful. I promise. But I need you to trust me a little bit here. This wall is going to be incredible. I've been thinking about it for weeks. I have sketches. I have a vision."

"A vision."

"Yep."

She looks at the wall. At the half-finished explosion of color that's already taking shape. At the way the blue bleeds into green bleeds into gold, like a sunrise that's still deciding what it wants to be when it grows up.

"It's very bright," she says.

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know." I grin at her. I can't help it. She's so serious. So stiff. It's like watching a cat try to pretend it didn't just fall off the couch. "But it's going to be. Give it a week. You'll walk in here and you'll feel something. And then you'll thank me."

She turns back to me, and for a second, just a second, I see something flicker behind those cold eyes. Something that looks almost like curiosity. Or maybe hunger. Or maybe I'm projecting, because I've been awake since four and I've had three cups of coffee and my brain is basically a pinball machine at this point.

"I don't thank people for doing their jobs," she says.

"Then I'll settle for a smile."

"I don't smile."

"Everyone smiles."

"Not everyone."

She says it like it's a fact. Like it's been tested. Like she's run the numbers and the data supports her conclusion.

I should back off. I know I should. This is a client. A very important client who is paying me more money than I've made in the last six months combined. I should nod and say *yes ma'am* and get back to work and keep my mouth shut.

But I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut.

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," I say.

She doesn't respond. Just looks at me for a long moment, then turns and walks away, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome counting down to something.

I watch her go. Watch the way she moves. Precise. Controlled. Like she's afraid that if she lets go for even a second, she'll fall apart.

And I think, *huh*.

Then I get the drop cloth. I put it down. I go back to painting. And I don't think about her again for at least fifteen minutes.

Which, for me, is basically forever.

The thing is, I'm not stupid. I know what this is. I know the story. Cold, closed-off woman meets warm, chaotic artist. Opposites attract. Sparks fly. Someone learns to feel again.

It's a tale as old as time. A cliché wrapped in a trope wrapped in a thousand movies I've seen and books I've read and songs I've cried to at two in the morning.

But here's the thing about clichés.

Sometimes they're true.

And here's the thing about me.

I've never been able to resist a challenge.

So when I finish for the day and pack up my brushes and walk past her office and see her through the glass, sitting at her desk, staring at her computer like it owes her money, I don't stop. I don't knock. I don't do anything I'm supposed to do.

I just smile.

And I keep walking.

But I'm already thinking about tomorrow.