[op] At the Art Museum
Title: At the Art Museum
Warnings: none
Summary: We made eye contact at the art museum.
She looked at me.
She looked at me, and blinked her blue brown eyes from under a maroon wool hat. Her hair was cropped and only a bit peeked out from under the hat at the side of her face, like a graceful, purposeful lock of hair on an artistic woman. She was an artistic woman, the colors of her clothes meshed well and neatly worn. She held a Moleskein in her hands.
She looked at me on the way surrounded by her peers and she smiled at me.
She looked at me and I fell in love.
She looked at me, and it was the most romantic way and place to fall in love. She was walking past with her group and I had stood by at the edge to let them pass, next to the golden-framed picture of a satyr wooing a nymph. How oddly ironic. We were surrounded by paintings and sculptures and stairs and glass in the largest art museum in the city and we could get lost in it together and walk through the wide, lit rooms holding hands and holding our breaths.
She looked at me and I smiled back. I decided she was a lovely art student looking at the Monets with a sad eye and a wistful smile. She would have a pair of tortoiseshell glasses at home she would use to peer at her art books with. She walked with her shoulders back, confident, but slightly shuffling, modest. The string bracelets on her wrists were worn.
She looked at me and smiled at me in a way that suggested perhaps we had known each other in a past life. We would have been lovers, long lost, maybe died together in gothic way. She painted and I sang. It would have been beautiful.
She looked at me, and I wondered how appropriate it would have been to grab her, pluck her out of her moving group and say you’ve caught me; now love me.
She looked at me.
She walked to the next gallery.
I continued on my way.
Warnings: none
Summary: We made eye contact at the art museum.
She looked at me.
She looked at me, and blinked her blue brown eyes from under a maroon wool hat. Her hair was cropped and only a bit peeked out from under the hat at the side of her face, like a graceful, purposeful lock of hair on an artistic woman. She was an artistic woman, the colors of her clothes meshed well and neatly worn. She held a Moleskein in her hands.
She looked at me on the way surrounded by her peers and she smiled at me.
She looked at me and I fell in love.
She looked at me, and it was the most romantic way and place to fall in love. She was walking past with her group and I had stood by at the edge to let them pass, next to the golden-framed picture of a satyr wooing a nymph. How oddly ironic. We were surrounded by paintings and sculptures and stairs and glass in the largest art museum in the city and we could get lost in it together and walk through the wide, lit rooms holding hands and holding our breaths.
She looked at me and I smiled back. I decided she was a lovely art student looking at the Monets with a sad eye and a wistful smile. She would have a pair of tortoiseshell glasses at home she would use to peer at her art books with. She walked with her shoulders back, confident, but slightly shuffling, modest. The string bracelets on her wrists were worn.
She looked at me and smiled at me in a way that suggested perhaps we had known each other in a past life. We would have been lovers, long lost, maybe died together in gothic way. She painted and I sang. It would have been beautiful.
She looked at me, and I wondered how appropriate it would have been to grab her, pluck her out of her moving group and say you’ve caught me; now love me.
She looked at me.
She walked to the next gallery.
I continued on my way.