An Evening at the Museum

Hi, friends! I wrote this story a few months ago and finally decided to share it. It's different from the types of pieces I usually post, but I hope it's meaningful to you.

Blessings. ❤️

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An Evening at the Museum

The downtown gallery rose like a cathedral beneath the full moon. Shafts of candlelight spun out the vast windows, like fluid hands beckoning museumgoers inside.

A couple floated arm-in-arm across the cobblestones and through the double doors. 

The husband appeared to be in his early thirties, his wife slightly younger. They wore ruffly, raspberry-colored clothing, which made them look like roses blossoming up from the drab streetcorner.

Once inside, the pair paused in front of the featured painting. It was the size of a horse, and hung on the central wall of the lobby.

“A stupendous closed composition.” The man folded his arms. “Skillful strokes. Pleasant contrast.”

“Yet not nearly so clever as the one we saw last week.  ‘Autumn in Sussex’.”

“Indeed. However, I hear this piece is by a new artist. It is a promising start, and I predict it shall go for a large sum. To think that we were among the first to see it.”

They shared a fast smile, then proceeded to the other exhibits. 

Two young fellows approached. One held a greasy sack of peanuts, while the other ate from it.

“Do you think we’ll get caught?” The broader of the two mumbled.

His friend gulped another nut. “Not if we eat quickly.”

“Oh, I’m good at that.”

In a few seconds, the men had finished the bag, and proceeded to lick their fingers.

  “Say,” the first nodded. “Fine painting, huh?”

“I guess it’s good enough. Now let’s dispose of this trash before anyone suspects anything.”

“Oh, Edward. Isn’t this a splendid art piece?” The small woman looked searchingly, hopefully at her spouse.

He shook his head. “It’s garish. Like that idiotic blazer William wore to the banquet last night.”

“Edward. He’s your son.”

“So he is. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s an egotistical young buffoon without a steady income, or a steady anything, for that matter. There, Evelyn, I’ve said it. And I’m not afraid to say it again.”

Tears filled Evelyn’s eyes. “I wanted tonight to be nice.”

“Nice. Such a blasted, empty word.”

“Edward–”

“What now?”

“It’s unimportant.” Evelyn stared at the carpet.

“Nonsense,” Edward frowned. “There’s no need to be afraid. Speak your mind.”

“Well. When I said I wanted tonight to be nice, I meant I hoped you’d be happy again.”

“Happy?” Edward’s voice rose to a shout, like the ascending notes of piano. “I am a perfectly satisfied man! And any ill qualities you do find in me are likely a reflection of your own unstable nature!”

“Edward, I–”

“That’s enough. We’re going home.”

By now, a constant flow of people were entering the gallery, and many stopped to admire the large painting displayed prominently in the lobby. An attendant propped the front doors open for convenience. 

A child shuffled down the sidewalk. She wore no coat, and her boots were filled with holes. At the sight of the museum, and all the golden light billowing from it, she froze. 

Then she saw the painting. It was so vivid that it seemed to fly off the wall and envelop her in rich greens and sapphires. It felt like softness, and a love she had always ached for but never known.

“Thank you,” she whispered.