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“And you said you were into photography, but Ai Weiwei isn’t that either,” she grinned.
I snorted. “I’m sorry, butDropping A Han Dynasty Urnabsolutely counts as photography.”
“Okay, andYe Haiyan’s Belongingsabsolutely counts as contemporary art,” she smirked. She spun on a dime, flitting in front of me and walking backward toward the exhibition room on her right as if she knew this space like the back of her hand. “And I’d argue thatyourexample leans contemporary, too.”
I followed her, enraptured by her knowledge of the subject and how little of a show it was. After the two conversations we’d had on that website and the letdowns I’d had before, I’d assumed, wrongfully, that the woman who turned up today would be somewhat interested in art, but mostly interested in sleeping with me. This one, though—Lily—felt oddly like a reunion with an old friend. There was ease and comfort between us that I hadn’t expected.
And she wassmart.
“Contemporary?” I smirked, watching as she walked, slipping through the crowd easily. She maneuvered herselftoward the gift shop that stood in the middle of the room to swerve around an older woman, nearly knocking a book off its display, but missing it by a millimeter. It didn’t even seem to register for her. “Fine. You can say that. But you can’t say thatA Study of Perspectiveisn’t photographic art.”
Her nose scrunched, and shit, there it was again—that pang of familiarity. “The ones where he’s giving the middle finger to different landmarks?”
“Nationallandmarks,” I corrected.
She shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess.”
“Not a fan offingers, Lily?”
Her cheeks heated as her mouth opened for a retort, but a person walking far too quickly passed beside her. She shifted her weight onto one foot, her hip jutting out to the side to create some space, but she wasn’t quite quick enough.
Bodies collided, and she spun, shifting her far more to her left than she had expected.
“Watch out—” I started, but nope, it was already happening. Too late to stop it. Not even my reaching out to her could have helped it, even if I’d managed to grab her.
She slammed into the little display at the gift shop.
A Greek-style column, about waist high, swayed back and forth as she desperately tried to grab for it. Atop it, little replica figurines depicting a scene from what I could only assume was the first Olympic Games started to wobble, and I dashed to her side, steadying them before they could crash to the ground.
But something warm brushed against my hand as the last one slotted back into place. She’d reached for it, too, and for the briefest of seconds, her fingers ran across the tops of mine.
Her face had gone a striking shade of red by the time we’d both retreated.
Only a handful of people turned to look at her, but the woman behind the cash register eyed her harshly, her gazenarrowing as Lily took a step away from the sculptures. “Anything broken?” she called.
“No,” I called back. “Sorry!”
“Oh my God,” Lily breathed, her fingertips resting against her lips as her gaze switched rapidly between me and the replica artwork she’d nearly ruined. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
I blinked at her. “I didn’t see her coming.”
“I…” She shook her head, her cheeks somehow deepening one more shade of red. “Imagine if that was a real sculpture, John. I could’ve ruined something priceless.”
John.Ugh. Why had I gone with that name? It sounded so wrong, so incorrect. No matter how many times I’d used it, it never hit my ears just right, and something about the way she said it just made my spine stiffen. It wasn’t what I wanted her to call me.
————
The freeness with which she offered me information as we moved from exhibit to exhibit was fascinating.
She was an aspiring art teacher and a recent graduate with her master’s in contemporary art theory, along with being a freelance artist on the side. She’d recently moved to Manhattan and was sharing an apartment with her friend, and casual dates were her way of meeting more people and learning the area well. I didn’t question how many times she’d been to this museum in particular on dates, but she seemed to know it inside and out, and the moment she told me that her favorite spot for coffee was SUITED, I had to stop for a moment to think.
I knew that cafe. I’d been a handful of times for lunch or on my way to work. My assistant often grabbed coffee from them.
They were in the financial district. As far as I knew, it was their only location, and although I could see an aspiring art teacher who had just moved to the city passing through the financial district once or twice, I couldn’t imagine it would be her regular spot. But the way she spoke about it made it seem like she visited it almost daily.
“What about you?” she asked, her head whipping around with a grin so wide I could see the tops of her upper teeth and the thinnest line of her gums. Behind her, Ai Weiwei held the Han Dynasty urn in the first of the three images, poised and ready to drop.
But I caught it.
