the perfect harmony of the composition, the blissful
serenity of the drawing, I thought that here was a man who'd had a
true vision. Here was a man who didn't paint milkmaids dressed as
the Virgin Mary, but here was a man who painted the real thing,
whose paintings and drawings approximated divinity. It was so
beautiful it took my breath away. And then you walked in.
I didn't
notice you enter, not at first, so transfixed was I by the beauty
of Leonardo's drawing, but then I felt a presence beside me,
somehow disquieting my reverie, something that upset the peaceful
tranquillity of my gaze.
Does this all
sound just too fanciful, Freddie, too fantastic, that I could feel
your presence beside me, even before I knew you were there? Am I
hyping the story of your picking me up? I'm sure I was not the
first girl you picked up in an art gallery. But I told you my
memory is good. I am not reinventing this.
Slowly, almost
unconsciously, I turned my gaze from the drawing and looked at you
sitting beside me, your eyes meeting mine in the dull light
reflected from the painting. You smiled. You smiled at me, and I
swear I nearly died. You were beautiful, Freddie, very beautiful. I
had never seen that in a man before. It was rare and precious. I
wanted to stare at you, to keep on looking at that handsome face,
those eyes, those eyes, Freddie?
You didn't say
anything to me; you just looked, upending the acute corners of your
mouth into a half smile, your eyes looking into mine. I never knew
what went on in your head, but I always gained the impression that
so many things flitted through it, each one registered and
evaluated, locked inside your mind to be later dismissed or
recalled if you needed it. I felt judged, evaluated; I felt the
weight of your wisdom and experience burning into me, before I even
knew the first thing about you.
"It's
beautiful," I said, the words escaping from my mouth. 'It's
beautiful!' I meant you are beautiful, you, Freddie!
You still
didn't say anything, but your smile broadened as you nodded your
head, barely perceptibly.
A sudden fear
ripped through my consciousness. I thought you were dangerous. I
knew you were dangerous. My face flushed red with embarrassment. I
had to escape. What was I doing here? And there between my legs in
that tiny room that houses one of the most beautiful works of art
ever created, I could feel my panties getting damp in my sexual
excitement. I mumbled an excuse me and stumbled out of the room
into the neon-lighted glare.
I thought
about this a lot afterwards. I was a silly girl whose head was
turned by your beauty. I am sure it was not as simple as that.
There was something about you, Freddie, something that I recognized
in the look that you gave me. I was not exactly fantastically
sexually experienced, but a married woman for three years, neither
was I such a shrinking violet to be so overwhelmed, so frightened
by mere attractiveness. There must have been something else. I
never was so stupid, so ungrateful, to see you as my nemesis, but
there was something terrifying for me in your gaze, something as
tentative as a look that unlocked so many things that had been
buried away in my mind for too long, something that carried much
more weight than mere temptation.
I walked
through one room after another, no longer casting glances at the
paintings, the sombre Flemish, the brash Spanish, the English
landscapes, my heart pulsing savagely inside me, a clear picture in
my mind of your frighteningly beautiful eyes.
A coffee, I
would go for a coffee and calm down. You know I rarely smoke, that
the box of ten that I carry in my bag can last a week, even a
month, but I felt desperately in need of a cigarette. I bought my
coffee and went to sit inside the virtually deserted smoking
section of the gallery cafe. Of course, I asked myself what was
wrong with me and why I had reacted like such a silly schoolgirl. I
was a married woman with adult responsibilities and there I was
mooning after a
serenity of the drawing, I thought that here was a man who'd had a
true vision. Here was a man who didn't paint milkmaids dressed as
the Virgin Mary, but here was a man who painted the real thing,
whose paintings and drawings approximated divinity. It was so
beautiful it took my breath away. And then you walked in.
I didn't
notice you enter, not at first, so transfixed was I by the beauty
of Leonardo's drawing, but then I felt a presence beside me,
somehow disquieting my reverie, something that upset the peaceful
tranquillity of my gaze.
Does this all
sound just too fanciful, Freddie, too fantastic, that I could feel
your presence beside me, even before I knew you were there? Am I
hyping the story of your picking me up? I'm sure I was not the
first girl you picked up in an art gallery. But I told you my
memory is good. I am not reinventing this.
Slowly, almost
unconsciously, I turned my gaze from the drawing and looked at you
sitting beside me, your eyes meeting mine in the dull light
reflected from the painting. You smiled. You smiled at me, and I
swear I nearly died. You were beautiful, Freddie, very beautiful. I
had never seen that in a man before. It was rare and precious. I
wanted to stare at you, to keep on looking at that handsome face,
those eyes, those eyes, Freddie?
You didn't say
anything to me; you just looked, upending the acute corners of your
mouth into a half smile, your eyes looking into mine. I never knew
what went on in your head, but I always gained the impression that
so many things flitted through it, each one registered and
evaluated, locked inside your mind to be later dismissed or
recalled if you needed it. I felt judged, evaluated; I felt the
weight of your wisdom and experience burning into me, before I even
knew the first thing about you.
"It's
beautiful," I said, the words escaping from my mouth. 'It's
beautiful!' I meant you are beautiful, you, Freddie!
You still
didn't say anything, but your smile broadened as you nodded your
head, barely perceptibly.
A sudden fear
ripped through my consciousness. I thought you were dangerous. I
knew you were dangerous. My face flushed red with embarrassment. I
had to escape. What was I doing here? And there between my legs in
that tiny room that houses one of the most beautiful works of art
ever created, I could feel my panties getting damp in my sexual
excitement. I mumbled an excuse me and stumbled out of the room
into the neon-lighted glare.
I thought
about this a lot afterwards. I was a silly girl whose head was
turned by your beauty. I am sure it was not as simple as that.
There was something about you, Freddie, something that I recognized
in the look that you gave me. I was not exactly fantastically
sexually experienced, but a married woman for three years, neither
was I such a shrinking violet to be so overwhelmed, so frightened
by mere attractiveness. There must have been something else. I
never was so stupid, so ungrateful, to see you as my nemesis, but
there was something terrifying for me in your gaze, something as
tentative as a look that unlocked so many things that had been
buried away in my mind for too long, something that carried much
more weight than mere temptation.
I walked
through one room after another, no longer casting glances at the
paintings, the sombre Flemish, the brash Spanish, the English
landscapes, my heart pulsing savagely inside me, a clear picture in
my mind of your frighteningly beautiful eyes.
A coffee, I
would go for a coffee and calm down. You know I rarely smoke, that
the box of ten that I carry in my bag can last a week, even a
month, but I felt desperately in need of a cigarette. I bought my
coffee and went to sit inside the virtually deserted smoking
section of the gallery cafe. Of course, I asked myself what was
wrong with me and why I had reacted like such a silly schoolgirl. I
was a married woman with adult responsibilities and there I was
mooning after a
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