Polish

     “Oh, no she didn’t!”

     Abel nodded solemnly, taking in all the expressions that were flashing through Girasol’s eyes. Astonishment, to confusion, to a sly kind of Schadenfreude that came when hearing a re-tell of someone else’s mistakes. Gossip, in it’s truest, purest form.

     The center of today’s story, a friend of a friend of an acquaintance of Able’s, was nothing more than an unknown face in the crowd. Not that a face mattered when a name and a vague idea of their sins were entertaining nonetheless, the personal details were inconsequential.

     The couple took these moments of other people’s drama very seriously.

     “Man, that’s brutal,” The woman hummed, her emotions starting to settle down. “Did the police ever find out she did it, or…?”

     “Not according to her sister,” Abel said, recalling the gruesome scene that had been described to him. Rumor was, that the wife killed her husband, with as many motives as one could count. For most people, that would be a morbid topic of conversation. For Abel and Girasol, death was a mundane occurrence, “She’s on the run, I believe. But she doesn’t have any charges, so my guess is they pinned her as another victim. Murder weapon was nowhere to be found.”

     “Well– good for her,” Girasol concluded, and she looked almost satisfied with herself, “Oh– I’m done with this hand, handsome. Hand me the other?”

     Girasol gave him a look, intense and flirty, as if she could eat him up. Her tail, swinging to the sides as the conversation ranged up, had seemed to react to her own words– it searched for Abel’s, softly placing itself on top of his; A mischievous invitation.

     Abel sighed but obliged nonetheless. Under his sunglasses, he could see the fruits of Girasol’s labor: a black, shining coat over his claws, chromatic in blues and greens as the light hit it in different places. His hand looked good, of course, but the polish was more than an aesthetic feat: it was functional. Protected the keratin of razor-sharp weapons, making them harder to break, if ever so slightly. As Abel handed off his un-painted fingers to Girasol for the other half of the job, he looked for something to test the improvement out.

     They were sitting atop a couch, nestled into Girasol’s living room. There were a couple of napkins and blank papers scattered on the coffee table at their side, cleaning supplies for the makeup products that had dominated the wooden surface. Abel reached out to grab a simple, notebook page and clawed through it with ease. The shredded bits fell to the floor lite, as if in slow motion.

     “Hey, you idiot,” Girasol snapped, quick to grab his wrist and yank it away from the table “They don’t dry that quickly, you need to wait for–!”

     Abel let out a small, dry laugh. He didn’t laugh often, and it was a blink-and-you-’ll-miss-it scenario– but he couldn’t help but find the situation amusing. Girasol was often like that, very quick to shift her emotions.

     Case in point, now she looked quite annoyed, “Estás loco, Abel. Don’t waste my precious work like that– do I need to re-do your hand?”

     He shook his head, try and reply, but didn’t get the chance. She was already holding his hand close to her eyes, examining it for any imperfections.

     “Tienes suerte que contigo no me enojo– you see this?” he pointed at the thumb. A small piece of paper, like the crumb from the shreds, had stuck to the drying polish, “Ugh, what am I gonna do with you?”

     “They look fine, Girasol,” he hummed but was thoroughly ignored.

     “I’ll re-do that later, ‘mkay? No more pulling stunts like that–geez.  Eso de que quiero pasar toda mi tarde contigo, y luego vas y estás desperdiciando producto. Yo creo que lo único que estas haciendo es darme más trabajo para que me quede aquí contigo otro ratito. Si quieres tenerme a ladito de ti, mejor pidemelo bonito– Y si no, ya sabes. Te voy a tener que re-hacer toda la mano-”

     “Before you do that–” Abel shot her a little smile, knowing enough was enough. If he wasn’t to stop her, she’d was capable of talking the night away. His Spanish was good to a certain level, but he missed enough of her rant that he’d prefer to keep her focused. “--How about I get us a drink? Or a snack, maybe?”

     His suggestion was an olive branch, and the Girasol was successfully distracted. Her ears perked up for a second as she thought it over, then she clapped her hands.

     “I’ll do it,” just like that, she was up, disregarding the open bottle of nail polish on the table. Abel had to reach out to grab it before it fell down, “Stay here. And again–”

     “No more stunts,” Abel finished for her, sighing.

     “Yeah, good boy!” She winked, “Stay put, hot stuff.”

     As his eyes followed Girasol out of the room, he couldn’t help but go back to his thought: once again, there she was shifting her emotions, as quickly as leaves colored fall. One moment Girasol was trying her luck at tempting Abel’s affections, the other puffed in an irrational annoyance bordering on fury. And now, devoid of any resentment, leaving Abel’s half-painted hand abandoned in favor of some snacks.

     She was quite a unique individual, that was for sure.

     And yet, Abel had learned to look through her bizarre behavior and recognize what was underneath because, at the end of the day, Girasol was quite a remarkable woman. Easygoing and charismatic, when not on her bad side. She had quite the knack for conversation, and as much of a quiet man as Abel was, she inspired an easy flow of words. Girasol was an expert at talking your ear out, demanding attention through the crazy stories she somehow learned— but also, she was quite an amazing listener. For the first time in what felt like years, Abel found it easy to talk to her as much as she talked to him. It was quite a pleasant feeling.

     Something else that felt easy, borderline effortless, was the way they paired up as a team. It was no secret their personalities were quite opposite, but that allowed their skills and trains of thought to complement each other through heists and missions. Together, they made great fighters, amazing thieves, and formidable foes, to an extent that not even Abel himself would be able to accomplish on his own.

     Maybe, Abel allowed himself to think, she was something akin to his soulmate. Not in the traditional sense, much to Girasol’s dismay, but in one that for Abel, made a more accurate description: two parts of the same soul, two sides of the same coin, and two people who were meant to exist in each other’s company. Life was not only easier with her around but in one way or another, less lonely.

     Words found it hard to describe how thankful he was to have her around.

     “There was only one slice,” the woman chirped, announcing her way back into the room, “You like strawberry shortcake, right? Also, I brought two spoons. In case you wanna share and all!”

     “Thank you,” Abel said. With the thought of soulmates still fresh in his mind, his voice was more solemn than he meant to.

     Not that Girasol seemed to notice, “You’re welcome, hot stuff! Also, I’m gonna finish your nails, m’kay? Care to feed me a bite or two? Like a true gentleman~”

     Abel laughed, despite himself, “Of course, Sunshine. Again, thank you.”

     “No, Abel,” Girasol winked, reaching out for his hand and squeezing, “Thank you.”