Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
This city has helped make my dreams come true, laughed at me when I was kicked to the curb, and offered solace in my darkest days. It has sheltered me in its cramped comedy clubs, inspired me with its ever-changing neighborhoods, and assured me there will always be a place for misfits in the city that never sleeps.
But today, New York City is really going out of its way to remind me why I never want to live anywhere else.
Today, my city is a wise, old matchmaker nudging the lovers together at every turn, angling for a classic happily-ever-after.
As Caroline and I reach the Met’s “in storage” collection, tucked away in a pocket of the museum only accessible by a handicapped elevator near the sculpture garden toilets, the city arranges for us to be the only people wandering through the glassed-in shelves.
“I can’t believe this,” Caroline murmurs, pausing by a painting of a young mother kissing the blond curls of her child at the edge of a field. They’re drenched in orange and pink sunset light, lost in a moment together as the woman’s husband drives the sheep home behind them. “This should be in the main collection. It’s stunning. How dare they banish it to a place no one even knows about?”
“So we can enjoy it in peace and tranquility, without any screaming school children asking if there’s a dead body in the sarcophagus?”
Caroline turns to me, her eyes wide as she whispers, “There are dead bodies in the sarcophagi. Lots of them. I asked a docent about it the first time I came here in college. Now, I can’t walk through the Egyptian wing without getting a stomachache.”
“Same,” I say. “But I still walk through there. Sometimes, it’s good to be reminded that time is fleeting.”
“It is.” She moves farther down the aisle, studying the treasures packed far more tightly together than in the rest of the museum. “So, what do you want to do with the rest of your fleeing time, Leo Fenton? What dreams do you want to see come true before you shuffle off your mortal coil?”
“Always with the easy questions, Caroline Cane.” I exhale a laugh. “I don’t know. It’s not any one thing really, it’s more…” We stop in front of a gorgeous rocking chair from the 1920’s, all graceful curves and polished wood far too beautiful to sit in. “There’s a phrase Jewish people say after someone’s passed—may their memory be a blessing. A couple of years ago it suddenly hit me that in order for my memory to be a blessing, my life has to be blessing first.” I sigh. “I guess I want that. To live in a way that makes it easy for people to say ‘his life was a blessing’ when I’m gone and mean it.”
She slips her hand into mine, giving it a squeeze. “You’re doing a great job.”
I glance down at her, my heart skipping a beat when she lifts her soulful eyes to mine. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“You barely know me, Ms. Cane,” I say, but she only smiles.
“I know you, Mr. Fenton,” she says. “I feel like I’ve known you for a very long time. I’ve just been waiting for you to show up. Where have you been?”
“Lost,” I whisper, shocked by the tightness in my throat and the emotion swelling in my chest. Who is this woman? And how can she disarm all my defenses with a word and a smile? “But I think I might be just about out of the woods.”
“Me, too,” she says, giving my hand a final squeeze before she glides away, asking over her shoulder, “So where’s that Picasso you were telling me about?”
“End of the aisle and turn right, then two aisles down,” I say, watching her hips sway, wishing I wrote poems instead of jokes. If I did, every one would be about her.
About her heart and her mind and her smile and…her butt.
What can I say? Even at my most romantic, I’m still a butt man and Caroline’s is an ass of unparalleled beauty.
“You know Picasso was an asshole, right?” she asks, pausing at the end of the aisle to gaze back at me.
“Yeah. Horrible misogynist. Probably a narcissist, too. Grade A prick all around.” I shrug and lift my hands at my sides with a grin. “But I love his work.”
She laughs. “Me, too.” She arches a brow. “You coming?”
“I am,” I say. I would follow this woman into an un-airconditioned subway station in the dead of summer, let alone to see a special, hidden Picasso, tucked away in a case just for us.
As we wander the rest of the overflow collection, we debate how much we can—or should—separate the art from the artist. We talk favorite impressionists, share our love of large form sculpture, and extol the talents of Paul Cadmus, an underrated queer modern artist from the early twentieth century.