The historic hotel we’re in has been filled with exhibits, and even though we came for one specific exhibit Aiden had picked out, we’ve roamed from room to room checking everything out. I shake my head as we push through the gilded revolving doors of the hotel. We’ve seen exhibits in cafés, museums, and Chinese restaurants. And in alleys and parking lots. The whole city is filled with art, tucked into every crack and corner, plastered on every wall. Even the river that winds through downtown hosts art, with a giant metal serpent plunging in and out of the water.

As we walk down the sidewalk, Aiden’s head is tilted up, his eyes fixed on a colorful mural on the side of the building we’re approaching. It’s shades of orange and coral—rippled pieces that look like fish scales that wrap the entire side of the building—and as we pass it, I can see that it’s actually moving. The scales look to each be an individual piece of paper, blowing in the slight breeze.

“I love that,” I say, more to myself than anything, because I really do.

“What does it remind you of?”

I think about it for a second, about the colors and the way everything bends and shifts.

Aiden smiles. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“A giant goldfish,” I say, and Aiden lets out a booming laugh that makes the person passing us on the sidewalk jump, which makes me laugh too. “Hey, you said no wrong answers. The colors remind me of those gigantic koi you see in the ponds in fancy gardens.”

“That’s a good answer.” He smiles and we keep walking, crossing a big blue bridge stretching over the river. The metal lattice that crosses over us is smurf-blue and the city is on full display down the riverbank.

“Your turn,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

“For?”

“If I’m forced to analyze art, so are you.”

“Okay.” He stops and turns back the way we came, looking up at the building behind us. From this distance it looks different. The individual pieces are all meshed together, and I can barely make out that there are a thousand little pieces making it up. “It reminds me of a sunset,” Aiden says, his voice thoughtful and almost a little sad. I think about the sunset the other night, the way it felt like the first time I had ever really seen one, how happy it had made me. Seeing the sunset that way feels a little like a present he gave me. “The way it’s beautiful, even though it’s an ending. It reminds me of oil pastels, the way it all meshes together, one color bleeding into the next.” He turns and smiles at me. “Or a goldfish. A massive, building-eating goldfish.”

I poke my elbow into him again.