In His Shadow, in His Bed
My security detail trailed at a discreet distance.
As I walked, I passed the small, exclusive art gallery where I had once dreamed of having my own exhibition, a lifetime ago when I was just Amelia Evans, a scholarship student with paint under her fingernails and stars in her eyes.
I stopped dead. There, in the window, displayed prominently with a tasteful spotlight, was a painting. It was a stormy seascape, all turbulent greys and slashes of angry blue, but in the center, a single, stubborn shaft of gold light broke through the clouds, illuminating a lone, resilient flower growing from a crack in a cliff face.