Lucky Chance

Time crawled me by as we were apart, the museum was so very quiet without him, I had never noticed quite how quiet other people were there.

And then, in an instant, the weeks were gone and I had to get ready. Every shirt felt wrong, every strand of hair on my head was an error, maybe I could somehow replace my eyes too? And that was just the physical, mentally it was so much worse; I was experiencing every thought at once in a cacophony of soft screaming.

Was it weird to go because I wasn't a student? How professional did I have to be? Would people talk to me? How do I explain any of why I am there? What if they throw me out? Maybe I should cancel…

And as if he was inside my mind my phone buzzed;

If you don’t turn up I’ll be sad but it's cool if you wanna baulk, but I will cry.

“Well now I can’t not go.” I said aloud, maybe someone would reply back with what I should do.

Another text to prompt me; just the address.

It seemed the university rented out a function hall for the exhibition, or maybe Michael studied art in a hotel, but it was at least more familiar footing. I had been to hotels before.

The building looms over me, red and sandstone coloured bricks, ornate masonry and soft dim lighting that felt inviting but not to me. If it wasn’t for the sandwich board outside advertising the galley exhibition I would have run for the hills. The thought of Michael’s tears pushed me forward.

I wanted to be less awkward but I think it is fundamental to the structure of my brain to feel like a deer in the headlights of a new situation. Michael seems too care-free to feel this way and my attempts to pry information out of him had been in vain.

I was his plus one and just needed to mention his name to get in. That and the start time (7pm) was all I had gotten before I felt like I was being annoying and stopped asking questions.

The gallery room is a large conference hall with dividers thrown up to make more space for the art in such a way I assume it looks like a maze from above, i look around and see its a lot taller than a normal room but not quite double; opulent, intimidating.

Michael makes sure I don’t have to find him by somehow sensing my presence and immediately bee-lining towards me, my hands are in his before I can even fully comprehend he’s wearing a nice shirt and formal trousers and has done absolutely nothing with his hair like I have.

“Yay you came,” He gushes “I’m so glad. Sorry I can’t entertain, I have to network.” there was a level of scorn in that last word. There was a pause for a moment and Michael looked at me with expectancy in his eyes I couldn’t understand.

“Of course, I didn’t want to make you cry.” Maybe I was supposed to respond? He seemed happy with what I said going by the slight flicker at the corner of his lips and the squeeze of my hands he gave before darting off into the throng of it all.

I had been so overwhelmed by the visuals I hadn’t noticed the low murmur of constant, gentle, conversation, it was so much more…more than the museum. A loud appreciation.

To distract myself from the noise I focus all my attention on the art. I feel mean because my first thought is that it’s good, surprisingly good, when I was a student I was awful at everything, but for a lot of the paintings on display I can’t see any difference to those in the museum.

Same sweeping brush strokes, realistic imagery or less realistic, it's all just art, feeling as if it belongs on the plain white walls. I do notice that some of them have a white border around the edges of the inside of the frame. A gentle barrier between the world of their scenes and the chaos of the outside world, peaceful, gentle. I didn’t see that in the museum, I’ll have to ask Michael about it.

I’ve been reading all the little plaques by the art as I go, Michael told me it's good to start where the artists wants you to start, the paper they’re printed on in thinner and the ink is a little less glossy, cheaper, but nice to see, this is students not masters at play.

Finally I come up to the painting I’ve been keeping my eyes out for as I go; Michael, just Michael. I want to reach out and touch the word, to feel the slight rise of the letters against the swirls of my finger tips, to make it real.

I take a few seconds before I can draw my eyes up to the painting, afraid, nervous, maybe something else, it's hard to tell. It's pretty. My eye is immediately drawn to the centre of the canvas, it's clear, sharp, but soon fades murkily at the edges like the frame is casting a shadow on it. The scene is simple, beautiful, a park or maybe woods; bright greens fold upon each other with perfect clarity but absolutely none at all; any shape could be anything. I think I expected something…else. But it’s pretty.

My musings are interrupted by a woman’s voice nearby, “It’s kind of boring isn’t it?”

I am aware I’m immediately defensive but don’t stop myself, “Is it?”

She tilts her head, looking at the painting, not me, “Well I mean it's technically impressive but it's not pushing any boundaries. Michael’s like that. He looks like he’d be super edgy but his art’s a little…safe.”

The woman finally looks at me and I feel like an insect, her eyes go wide, she pushes her dyed hair behind her ear and shifts her head like she’s looking at something small, innocent and edible.

“Do you model?”

Does she think I'm supposed to be here, in this room, right now, am I caught, should I run, what if I was just never supposed to come to this exact room, I’ve made a mistake! I feel my brain freezing up, I shake my head.

“You should be!” She turns and pulls the sleeve of a man standing nearby but I can barely see the world around me, its blurring at the edges. I repeat their words in my head as a desperate attempt to comprehend them.

“You should!” You should.

“I’d love to paint you.” I’d love to paint you.

“Come sit for us sometime.” Come sit for us sometime.

“Oh, I’d be down for that.” Oh…This voice cuts through, familiar, like a gentle piece of cotton wool covering everything else. I manage to pull my gaze up and meet the grey eyes of Michael, he has a glass of champagne compared to the last time I saw him and his top button is undone, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, so at ease in this place that makes me feel like I’m not a person.

Michael hooks an arm around my shoulders and turns my body slightly away from them and towards himself, it’s comfortable, an act of kindness, I hope, “I think you make a great sitter. We always need new bodies.”

“It helps if they’re good to look at.” The woman says with another glance over me, I try not to retreat into myself like a scared mouse and leant my shoulders against the arm at my back, its safe, secure, reliable. Even if I can’t speak I can seem like someone who has a functioning larynx.

“It is but you should still draw different bodies.” The other man says, he’s taller than me and holds himself with the confidence to highlight that height, his choice of clothes is a short sleeved shirt in a pattern of flowers and plain black trousers. Black and black and green and the slight shimmer of the embroidery thread is beautiful, hundreds of threads making up one entwined image; 1,2,3,4…leaves. So many leaves on so many flowers.

Michael squeezes my shoulder and the world snaps back into clarity as if he slammed my eyes back into their sockets with a bounce.

“So how do you two know each other?” She asks, looking at his hand on my shoulder until it burns a little, like a magnifying glass on a hot day. I let him reply for us, even if I could speak I have no idea how to phrase it; friends by chance, strangers, coincidences, something less, something more, nothing at all? Nothing.

“He’s my plus one.” It’s…true. I am, but what does that even mean, I had hoped his answer would be for me too but nothing.

“Oh…” Her gaze bounces between us.

Michael continues before she can, “Yeah he inspired me for this piece,” he looks back at it for a moment, “In spirit, at least. As you can see he’s no walk in the park.”

No one laughs at the joke. Except me. It’s embarrassing but I let the laughter out, maybe I'm having a psychotic break.

Soon the other two let out slight chuckles and the man slaps him on the shoulder, “That was awful, man, stick to painting.”

The rest of the evening, Michael keeps me in arms reach, all but parading me around his peers, like an accessory, he speaks for me but I’m so very glad he does. Almost against my will by the end of the event I’ve become in demand as a sitter and Michael isn’t against it and so I’m more for it than I was at first. Mostly I just look forward to seeing him in new situations.

He offers to me walk me home but I turn him down, it’s miles, just as I go to leave he takes my wrist and pulls my hand to his lips.

“Get home safe.”

It’s soft, warm, hot, very hot, my skin is burning even though I only had a few glasses of champagne, my mind goes blank but for once it's calm; the absence of anything except how his lips feel like velvet on the back of my hand.

That night I barely remember how I got home.