Chance Encounter

Beige like sand and sandstone, cream like bricks and tiles, brown like wood and warmth, I stood in the same spot on the same floor of the same museum I always visited on a Wednesday afternoon, hoping, waiting, for something to happen.

I had heard the best way to make friends was repetition; the same place, the same time, the same people. Work and school were an infinite repetition but almost too much, too exposed to each other until you got bored, so I chose a museum in the city on a day not too busy, not too empty, to maximise the chance of a chance encounter.

Paintings were flat, two dimensional, an easier starting point than something like a sculpture, no lighting or angles to be considered so much. Simple, elegant, easy….easy. I could feel my brow crease as I stared at the brush strokes, incomprehensible, why the tree there or the face looking away from the viewer, why red, why grey? Every visit more questions filled my head like a whirlpool, and this was supposed to be relaxing?

“You must really like this painting.”

The voice cut through like the bow of a ship and I all but flinched at the accusation, did I like the painting? But this was progress! A conversation, but now there needed to be a reply.

“I’m not sure.” Good! It was vague, open ended, and would absolutely lead to more conversation.

His voice was soft, his words keenly gentle despite their prying nature, “You’re sure enough to stare at it for an hour.”

“I…” What would sound interesting? Intelligent? Appreciative? My eyes darted from corner to corner for the answer but still nothing made sense, “Wondered why someone so young would paint something so…Red.” Ah, it sounded stupid.

But the conversation continued! “Huh, I guess it is very red. Maybe the artist couldn’t afford brighter colours.” His laugh was reserved, confined between them and the wall for etiquette's sake.

I was confident enough to glance to one side and take in the potential friend; golden waves of hair framed a face with cloudy grey eyes that could look into mine without a tilt of the head up or down and clothes that indicated practical casualness and comfort. The overall gist of him was effortless confidence foreign to me despite having more experience in existing.

What did he see looking back? A boring man with brown hair and brown eyes and the expression of a lost deer in the middle of the road at rush hour. But he smiled like he saw something else entirely.

“Maybe,” I said, trying not to look away, shrink away, “Maybe red was closer to hand.”

“Or maybe it's more morbid, red for violence, my art history’s…decent, I think he would have seen a war in his youth.” He peered down at the plaque besides the painting, a plaque I had read a hundred times until it dissolved into just letters, “At least I think it was that year…Maybe it was the decade after…”

I watched him trail off in thought, eyes flickering like a candle across the flat surface as if tracing mountain ridges, and as I watched I noticed the satchel across his chest and the black, matte, sketchbook at his hip, the fingers with gnawn nails that clung to it like it was golden, “Is it…your style of art?”

“Nah,” He was nonchalant, non combative, on laid back feet, “I prefer working in pencil and charcoal. No colours to mess with, just values.”

I nodded like I knew what he meant and offered a hand to the hand grasping the sketchbook, he let it rest in the hammock of the fabric of his shirt and the top of his bag and gave the handshake of a man with little experience but some strength. It was a youthful handshake, not quite grasping the palm in unfamiliar intimacy but a learned, technical, distant understanding of the required form made up for what was lacking.

“I’m Alex.”

“Michael.”

I chatted with Michael for a few more minutes, platitudes and discussion. I tried to be open but could only go so far as to let slip that I had a train to catch soon and came to the museum often. He was far more open, far more honest with me. He was a student, a 2nd year, nearing the end of the last module of the year which made sense, it was spring. His university was close to the museum and he only had afternoon classes on Wednesday’s so it was ideal. This museum, he told me, had a good collection to get lost in and regularly had exhibitions with cheap tickets for students. He liked art; making, consuming, enjoying it and disliked not having deadlines or he got lost in the flow of things.

I listened politely and tried to pay attention to everything he said, it was easy, he was a natural in conversation that made me only shyer in talking to him. Being upstaged by a youth, someone younger, was embarrassing, like a baby correcting your pronunciation. I was comfortable in taking a back seat and Michael was comfortable filling my silences with his words.

Eventually I had to go, or get home late, not that it was unlikely or less lonely in the evening, but I knew that exact train always had a seat or two free to rest in after a day of sitting and an afternoon of standing still. So I went to make my final excuse to step out of the conversation only to be immediately stilled by his gentle, prying words once more.

“Will you be here next week too?”

“I will.”

I replied succinctly, directly, it was just two words but it felt like a promise between the two of us.

“Looking forward to it.”

“As am I.”

And with that we parted with a small wave and nothing but forenames and a dozen lines between us but it filled my memories of that day more than anything else.

I missed my train and replayed them in my mind like a tape on the platform, every moment was a success, of sorts, a step forward in my plans to make friends. Had I been too forward? Too formal? Too quiet? Probably but he had faltered too, occasionally, singularly, so we weren't infallible, either of us. Eventually the train came and I was forced to stand with my head against the curve by the doors. In the overcast of the blurring, bouncing, window view I saw reflections of those cool, grey eyes and let my own rest until my stop came, snuck up on me, and I found myself home.

There had been steps between the two but they were inconsequential, liminal, I took one step onto the platform and the other followed to my doorstep. The light fading and pulling shadows long and twisted across my eventual doorway.

I lay on my bed in some more relaxing clothes, staring at the ceiling a little too intensely until it doubled and blurred into individual atoms, trying to grip onto the rough plaster with my eyes until sleep took me away into the next week, next Wednesday.