“Hmm.” The lift doors opened, and we entered the lobby. Elliot took out his phone and called up the Uber app.
“Hmm? What does that mean?” I was immediately irritated. Yet again, I’d shared something deeply personal, and got nothing in return.
“Three minutes … Confirm …” he muttered, then turned to me. “You worry the world is leaving you behind and you haven’t got a chance of catching up.”
Infuriatingly, he’d managed to summarize exactly how I felt inside. I swallowed. “Yeah, maybe.”
“I feel the same sometimes. But as you and I established yesterday, we are miserable bastards, right?”
“I said miserable and loveless, actually,” I corrected him.
“Yeah.” He grinned. “So, let’s be miserable, loveless bastards who get shit done.”
A little while later Elliot and I stood before the Metropolitan Museum of Art, impressive in the spring sunshine. The famous steps were crowded with all sorts of people soaking up the rays; to our left a gaggle of tourists took a multitude of selfies while two impeccably dressed women shared sushi from the same tray. Groups of young people – presumably students – sat drinking coffee and ogling their phones. There was even one gentleman stretched out enjoying a vape and theNew York Times. Elliot waited – not patiently – as I took numerous photos.
“Okay, I’m done,” I said eventually. “Aside from enhancing my Insta grid, what are we here to see?”
“Wait and see,” he said.
I started to head up the steps to the huge main doors, but Elliot grabbed my arm. “Where are you going?”
Confused, I pointed. “The entrance?”
He pulled a face. “What, you want to queue for hours? You think we have all day?”
“I … no?”
“And here I thought you were Miss Practical. This way.” Elliot loped off down to the left of the steps, following the line of the building until we arrived at an unassuming red awning on Eighty-First Street. We headed through, arriving in a small lobby milling with people but no queue at the ticket desk. The airy, cool space was surprisingly hushed and after Elliot paid admission, he led me with confidence into the heart of the museum, me practically throwing my neck out trying to take in all the art that I could see mere glimpses of. We took a left at Medieval art, then hit some stairs to the second floor.
“Can we slow down for a minute?” I wheezed as we powereddown another corridor, dodging yawning schoolchildren and their harassed teachers.
“Come on, you miserable bastard,” Elliot said, earning stern glares from a passing couple intently perusing their museum guide. They were even more confused when I laughed.
Moments later, we arrived at a special exhibit titledControversies of theItalian Romantics. It was a small space tucked away in the corner of the museum and Elliot wasted no time dragging me straight to one picture in particular. It was portrait style, about a meter high and elegantly lit with small spotlights. It was simple; a woman in a blue dress took center scene, leaning in to what looked like a dreamy kiss with a man in a red cape and feathered hat. There was no denying it was a beautiful picture, but I was still no clearer about why Elliot was insisting I look at it.
“Il Bacioby Francesco Hayez,” Elliot announced. “It’s a rare chance to see it in person as, luckily, it’s on loan from the Milan collection.”
“It’s lovely,” I said politely. I could feel Elliot’s eyes drilling a hole in the side of my face and I felt compelled to say more. “Her dress is … shiny.”
“Her dress … ?” Elliot spluttered. “That’s your reaction?”
“What do you want me to say?” I shot back. “You want my reaction, that was the first one; how did the painter make the dress shiny? Sorry.” I could hear my voice rising so I took a breath. I’d shamefully not spent a lot of time in art galleries, despite living in a city full of them. Bex was heavily into art, though she’d long given up on trying to engage me in discussion on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate paintings, I just didn’t know how I was meant to interact with them. Like, how was anyone meant to know what wasgood? Was it just because someone told you one piece was better than another?
“You don’t need to apologize,” Elliot said, after a longpause. “I just find it odd that someone who loves movies can’t look at other forms of art in the same way.”
That gave me pause. “I don’t know,” I said after coming up blank. “I mean, some paintings are just splatters and cubes and a whole mess of oil paint. I suppose I like things to be clear, you know? Tell me somethingtrue.”
“Ah, but what is truth?” Elliot said archly.
“Oh do fuck off,” I said with a groan.
“Why do you have to be—” He took a breath. “All I’m saying is that sometimes the best stories, the most … beautiful stories can be found in symbols and metaphors that take time to unpack and analyze. The journey to truth can be as enlightening as the truth itself.” He mistook my thoughtful silence for disbelief and tutted. “Or, we can do things the Lucie way and be super literal, super simple—”
“I wish I’d never told you aboutIndependence Day,” I interrupted. “I’m not saying I can’t appreciate subtlety; I’m just saying art and beauty doesn’t have to be inaccessible to the masses! RJ agrees with me.”
“Excuse me?” A bespectacled gentleman popped his head in between us. “If you’ve quite finished, my wife and I would like to look at—”
“Hold up a moment,” Elliot asked. “My friend here hasn’t quite appreciated this painting enough yet.”
