This has to mean something, right? Like the universe is trying to pull us together, or something? As I stand here now, I think maybe it’s time to listen.
“Austen?” I say when I snap out of my shock and step closer.
He turns to face me, and I can’t help but huff out a disbelieving laugh. It’s him. It’s actually him.
“Hey,” he says, surely just as shocked as me.
I can’t help but smile, something in my chest lightens and everything gets a little fuzzy.
“Hey,” I repeat.
I step up to his side and pull my gaze from him to look at the painting. I feel his eyes on me, but I let him stare. As surprised as I am to see him here, I can’t pull away from the masterpiece in front of me. The colors, the perfection in which Courbet captures the dips and curves of the muscles… it’s breathtaking.
“How is this happening?” Austen asks breathlessly.
All I can do is shrug. I turn to him, giving him a small smile.
“I can’t begin to answer that,” I say.
He shakes his head and I turn back to the painting, not ready to let it go.
“This is a beautiful piece,” he comments. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable.
I nod. “One of, if not my most, favorite,” I answer.
“It’s so simple yet…”
“There’s so much detail. Like a photograph.”
“Yeah…” he says wistfully, his body moving the slightest bit closer to mine as he shifts his weight.
We stay there, side by side, for a long while, just taking in the painting. People pass us, stop and look, share conversation, but we don’t move. We take our time, and this moment somehow feels important, so I just let it be.
“Where are you going next?” Austen asks when I finally pull my gaze from the painting and step back.
“I would love to seeRoman Charity, but I believe that’s down a few hallways.” I look around, noting the gallery numbers around us. “But I do believeAn Eruption of Vesuviusis just in the other room over here, and seeing that would be great.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” He’s almost shy as he asks, and I can’t help but smile.
“That would be nice.”
We make our way through the rooms, stopping frequently to take in the artwork. There is so much and it’s all so beautiful. As we walk the halls to make our way toward the 600s, Austen speaks again.
“I have no idea why I decided to come here today,” he says.
“Honestly? Me either.”
“Weird coincidence.”
“I’ll say.”
I lead him through the rooms, wanting to see this next painting. Of course, I want to see them all, butRoman Charitywas also on my list ofmust-see.
I spot it right away and head over.
“Oh wow,” Austen says. “Is he, uh…”
“Yep,” I say, pointing to the painting. “This is the young woman’s father, Cimon. He was put in prison to die of starvation. Pero, the daughter, would visit him and breastfeed him to keep him nourished.”
