Cleopatra and Frankenstein

When he finally did speak, it was a single sentence. When the darkest part of you meets the darkest part of me, it creates light.

"Everything for the story," said Cleo, nodding toward Frank.

Cleo caught Santiago's eye and smiled. Everyone Frank knew was the greatest something in the world. His half sister Zoe was the greatest actor, his best friend Anders was the greatest art director and amateur soccer player, and Cleo, well, Cleo was the most talented painter, the deepest thinker, the most beautiful woman on earth. Why? Because Frank wouldn't have married anyone else.

They both turned to each other at the same time. He hesitated, then pulled her in for a hug. Her hair smelled like soap and almonds and cigarettes.

"Fighting can be a good thing, anyway. Look at Frida Kablo and Diego Rivera. They got divorced, got back together, split up again.”

"But did you ever think that they created their art in spite of the fighting, not because of it?"

"Who cares?" said Cleo between mouthfuls of dough. "Point is, they made it."

They'll be fine. New Year's Eve is prime fighting night for couples.

It's like fireworks and fights. The two staples of a good New Year's."

“You can't blame all your problems on being a woman!"

Cleo put her face close to Frank's and spoke so quietly her words were just above a breath. He had the insane hope she was about to kiss him.

"Yes, I can," she said.

"Aren't all men trying to buy women, deep down?"

Everything about her was deliberate. Frank, who had spent much of his life surrounded by beautiful people, had never met anyone who looked like her.