Someone write me the story that explains this photo.
It was cold, that second week of March. Grete had dressed for the weather; Kurt had left the house without a jacket. Across the street, the young girl in the plaid flannel shirt tagging the community bulletin board realized she was being watched, dropped the canister of spray paint, and fled.
Grete bumped Kurt’s arm, glancing at the abandoned can, the unfinished tag, the layers of older graffiti covering the column.
“Dare you,” she said.
Kurt followed her glance, shoved his hands further into his pockets.
“My hands are cold,” he replied.
She stripped off her gloves and handed them to him. He looked at them, then at her face; tucked his briefcase under his arm, and slid them on, the wool still warm from her fingers.
“This is the last time, I promise. Any other excuses?” she asked.
Kurt huffed a little, but it was only out of habit. Grete was the one who kept promises. He was the one who was out of excuses.
“Fine then,” he said. “Last time.”
They crossed the street a little way up from the board and walked down towards it, Kurt stepping quickly, Grete sauntering more slowly behind him, her boots grating on the cobbles. When he reached it, he picked up the can and shook it.
“It’s almost out,” he said, not glancing back at where he knew Grete was watching. “And whatever that is doesn’t make any sense. What should I put on there instead?” The paint was dripping a little, and he heard Grete snort a little, heard the heels of her boots.
Kurt shrugged and started spraying over the tag, got through a half-hearted half a heart before the paint ran out. He straightened but didn’t turn around. The sound of boot heels hadn’t stopped, it was past him now, continuing down the street. Away. Grete kept her promises.
“It’s out,” he said. “I’m out.”