“I’m sorry,” Her words crept like a silent wave. I didn’t know how to respond, so I maintained quietude. Moments evaporated before Katya’s grip slightly loosened. Following the lead, I let her go gently. She moved like a ghost to where she’d been bawling and knelt over to stare despondently at the angel figurine, broken in the argument. When she finally picked up the pieces and cradled them closely, I neared. The porcelain angel was soft, fragile and shattered. Katya’s open palm was like a casket baring the remnants of loss.

“I used to sing to this angel when I was a kid.” She started somberly. “When my Dad left, mum was a wreck. I had nobody. Then one day I found this at an op-shop. I don’t know why, but I was drawn to it. I had no money to buy it, so I’d used to visit every day and just watch it. But, about three weeks into the relationship,” she eyed the angel fondly, “it was gone. I felt terrible. I didn’t understand yet why Dad had left and now this precious angel was gone. I was nearly in tears at the store when the old lady that worked at the counter came to me. She had the figurine in her hand and was smiling like a grandmother on a birthday.” Katya laughed low, “She said I could have it. As long as I took care of it.” These last words obviously pained her to say. Again, tears took control. Her fingers closed over the figurine as she clutched tightly. Her eyes similarly shut, she was disappearing into her mind. A line of blood trickled from Katya’s fastened hand. The angel, invisible in its pale casket, was now a mess of sharp porcelain fragments, piercing skin. Katya seemed unaware of the harm being done, owned momentarily by her mind.

The paintings that surrounded us were all amazing. None of them displayed a clear meaning or intent, though they were each laced with an abstract beauty that drew the viewer’s eyes like a moth to light. One of Hornby’s previously unnoticed sentences repeated itself in my head, surprising my memory. He had once said that artwork was an extension of the thoughts and emotions that lived within its creator. He said that invariably, through study, you can surmise what any artist or writer or musician was feeling in the moments he spent building the piece which you were viewing or hearing or reading. I wondered as I remembered these words, if I could study everything on the walls around me and discover Katya’s inner-workings. Was the truth of who she was weaved intermittently through this world of murals and images? The question fluttered through my head like a curious butterfly before I was interrupted by Katya’s voice.

“I need to get away.” She said plainly.

“To where?” I asked as she opened her eyes and saw the bleeding. She did nothing about it, however, instead relishing this moment with her angel.

“There’s this place near the beach,” she spoke softly, “if I go there, will you come with me?”

The reply was instant in my head but laboured by my tongue. I was her dependency and she was mine and together we could bathe in that comfortable glow, no matter how either of us felt individually.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll come with you.”