still so cruel?
You know the phrase kill your darlings? Well, this is the memorial. This was always my favorite chapter of the first book I had ever written and since I've decided it will never see the light of day, I wanted to give this chapter its due. It's nothing special, and I'm still debating if the shift from past to present tense was a good idea, but I'm happy this piece gets to live on.
Art museums seem to me to be a weird liminal space somehow. Reality moves slower, because moving too quickly through a gallery feels a bit disrespectful, and the overwhelming sense of quiet that permeates the rooms emphasizes the sensation that you’ve entered a space much removed from everyday life. It’s a snapshot, a tomb, void of distraction.
Somehow I’ve been to the art museum every week this month. And I’m spending hours here, not caring whether I’ve seen this painting or sculpture seven times already, or that the people at the front desk and the security guards that circle the galleries now know me on a first name basis. I can only hope I’m not calling attention to myself for any other reason.
I pause in front of a Renoir. It’s one of my favorites in the collection, the yellow and blue contrasting so beautifully against each other in the floral setting. It isn’t the most interesting choice, there were a handful of fascinating portraits for instance that were more attractive to others circling the gallery. But today it is this Renoir that ensnares my focus, makes me quiet.
‘Oh you’re so kind, thank you so much! I know she’s going to love it!’ The woman’s voice is shrill and much too loud for the atmosphere that she had voluntarily entered and I glance over at her or at least where her voice is coming from with a strong sense of disgust. But my eyes do not meet what I am expecting to see. As I look around a corner, I freeze, noticing not a middle aged woman, but a tall, well dressed man with hair expertly styled and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Oh no…’ I breathe out, as a wave of fear, pain and longing wash over me. ‘Oh god no.’
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I hope that the small piece of corner which separates us is enough to obscure me from view. But even as I move further out of sight, I am almost caught by the desire to stand clearly in his viewpoint, so that he can see me, notice me, approach me. No, what am I thinking? No.
I walk away into a different section of the museum a bit farther down and not immediately visible from where I once was. And I then take a few deep breaths to compose myself, knowing that my nerves must be obvious all over my face. The nearby guard, whose name is Jennie, raises an eyebrow of concern at me, and I attempt a smile to show her that I’m alright. However fake the smile is, she seems to accept it and I pass on.
Eventually I stop in front of a Monet, and finally feel the space to breathe normally again. It’s a peaceful painting, quite unlike the frolicking turmoil of my present thoughts. As I gaze at its serenity, I can’t help but be slightly disappointed with myself. It feels childish, stupid and well, hopeless to be wearing any emotion other than indifference on my face. But, I muse, it is fair that I am feeling this thrown off, I have to admit. I wasn’t expecting to see him, wasn’t even considering it, and now my sense of escape and distraction seem worthless. It’s different from the updates that caused such a horrible fight within myself but now no longer make me spiral whenever I come across them unexpectedly. I'm not spiraling now, at least yet, but I still feel the gnawing pain of regret.
‘It’s a beautiful set of paintings,’ a voice murmurs to my left.
I start violently, the sudden pull back to reality from the distracting maw of my thoughts almost unwelcome, and I turn towards him stunned and shaken, not realizing what I am doing or taking a second to consider that acknowledging his presence may be worse.
‘Oh,’ I stutter out, as my eyes meet his, and their blank expression wavers for a second, unable to hide the joy he feels from seeing me face to face again. I know mine must be betraying the same feelings then and there, even though it hurts to be so close to him and to be so aware of what had passed between us.
‘They are,’ I manage to say, unable to drag my eyes away from his face. ‘I was just thinking about how peaceful it all looked.’ Oh, why am I being like this, I think desperately. I had so much time to recalibrate, I thought I was doing better. But it is like him to throw me off balance, I consider bemused. We can’t have changed oh so much.
He smiles, but his expression is once again guarded and tired, and it’s painful to see. I had noticed it then and I am sorry to see that it persisted. I’d hoped it wouldn’t. ‘I’ve always admired Monet’s use of color,’ he remarks softly.
This statement almost makes me laugh. ‘Not his style?’ I ask in a friendly teasing tone that I instantly regret, as I see once again his eyes brighten and him start a little. I didn’t mean to flirt. It was mean, and I wish it hadn’t come so easily.
‘Well of course his style is phenomenal,’ he says, with a sense of ease slipping into his tone. ‘But I wanted to touch on something a little less talked about.’ He pauses, and I can feel my breath catch. ‘You seemed like a person who would appreciate those details.’
Despite my nerves, I can’t help but roll my eyes slightly. Of course he would be pretending like this. ‘You’ve read me like a book, I wonder why,’ I say quietly.
‘Would it be too much to ask if you’re still so cruel?’ The words cut to my soul.
‘Still so constant.’ I reply, eyes trained towards the painting in front of me.
A laugh escapes him, but it is hollow. ‘I should have guessed.’ The line is intended to be bitter, that is clear, but I only hear the sadness. ‘I remember what you said then, that I’d be thanking you eventually, but I’m nowhere near eventually.’ He is watching me, I can see him in my peripheral, and his voice is quiet, barely carrying over the chatter of people around us.
I don’t know how to respond. Can I say that I feel the same as he did? Do I have to lie? Can I tell him that I’m not able to trust myself anymore? That I am confident letting him go two years ago was the biggest mistake of my life? Can I say that?
No.
I breathe in and turn to face him. I smile softly, heart breaking as I see how it affects him, and say, ‘It doesn’t help either of us to dwell on what ifs. It was really good to see you, but I have to go.’ And reaching out a hand, I squeeze his arm lightly and then walk quickly away, not looking back once.
As soon as I am securely out of sight, I trust him enough not to follow me, I run to the nearest bathroom and cry the hardest I have in years.
~nan