when it rained, she never said "oh, this is going to ruin my hair." and he didn't say "well, this is going to change our plans."
they grew tomatoes on their tiny balcony. some days, it was all they ate. tomato sandwiches. tomato pie. tomato jam.
she had stacks of books that contained paintings by other painters who she thought were far better and more ethereal than she could ever be.
she used the books to prop up her canvass. she had no use for an easel.
he had a trunk full of locks and chains that he would wrap around his body with dramatic flair. spinning and waving his hands until he was completely covered in metal.
sometimes, she would come over to him just as he finished bolting the last lock.
he would place the key in her paint-covered hand and she would unlock him.
laughing and saying things like "you have escaped for the last time" and "i always know where to find you."
those were the moments that felt like a dance.
they could hug each other with their eyes.