For whatever reason Torrie gets stuck on a little sad sometimes, curious if it’s a reflection on her, or just the movement itself. She knew artists, before, but they were modern types. Sculptures made out of baby doll heads and trash was their medium, the kind of thing she could never get herself to consider art. There was no heart. The kind of paintings that Alejo compares her to sound different, so she decides to let her curiosity go. She knows a compliment when she’s given one.
“Thanks,” she tells him, her expression clear of any sarcasm as she unfurls herself, the soles of her boots hitting the floor of the car, echoing in the space. “Are you an artist?” Torrie’s eyes go to Alejo’s hands with the question. It could be a shot in the dark, but he had described it like someone who was more than a casual observer. The same way Torrie has always given herself away when she talks about music.