“That girl in the art gallery talking to a man” … “I don’t think she knows him” She doesn’t know … Still. Very still. But she certainly felt a distraction from the attention. “Do you know her?” He asked. The two having met an hour earlier … “I do.” There was already this … familiar. He is wearing a scarf, she likes it. Dark blue wool. Blanket thick. Cashmere, she thought. Initialed. He touches it … often … seemingly by way of an invitation … I mean introduction. “I see …” Tell me was what she heard … often. She explains her work … the inspiration behind the piece … at his request. And she was getting tired of sitting. “I did ask.” … “You did.” He smiles.
She used to live in New York. A city seen. “You see …” yes. And being a creature of habit … she inhabited small spaces. By an open window … a chair … a bed … a table. Definitely a utilitarian function working with the stylish minimalism necessary to balance her moods. Morning rituals began with tea at table by window … cracked slightly for all four seasons. Not ever having any voyeuristic instincts herself … looking, gazing, peeking, prying or even leaning out of window … was not habitual. Feeling the morning sun, however faint or strong, bath her person … was. It was a love she felt, slightly.
One morning while enjoying this ritual … her solitary tea … an envelope was slipped under the door. It was an invitation to a one-man art exhibit of an artist she had never heard of but at a gallery she was not unfamiliar with. She decided she would go, if only to understand the importance of her appearance at this event given the mysterious cloak and dagger delivery of the invite.
She went. She saw. Or was seen in a most Hitchcockian shock. Every painting that hung from wall to wall was of her in various stages of her rituals. By her windows … eating, sleeping, reading, crying, laughing, talking, walking … out the gallery door. She went. Not to look back. She did not look back. She kept moving … her table, her chair, her bed. Eventually inhabiting a smaller space not by a window. Was there a window. “No” … She didn’t notice … the missing sun. But she did. How could she not.
The man … intrigued … smiles again. He like others … love … just like that … this piece, this painting. Now he too wants to look, gaze, peek, and pry into her window. He wants. He gazes at … looks knowingly … long … peeks thoroughly through and pries open her window. He takes off his scarf … sighing with delight. Warm. He smiles. How could he not.
What a beautiful day.
by Tam Ampomah
padded papers 