Work of Art
I want to meet you in a city where neither of us lives. She’d said, never imaging he’d make the trip. It wasn’t as if either of them was real after all—just collections of words and pictures. Characters in a story. Good stories happen in Chicago, and she already had a ticket. So she left clues in text messages and stashed maps under benches never planning to be found. When he found her, she wished she’d taken more time with her hair. He said nothing at first, just stood back and considered, pretending the museum had always been her home.
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