Page 6 of Monarch
The warmth in the gallery is starting to feel stuffy, like the lights up above are beaming down directly on me. I undo the buttons of myjacket but stop taking it off when Marjolein gives me another frosty look.
“The smaller pieces on the wall behind you may also be of interest,” she indicates.
Because of course a woman like me can’t afford this large piece. I glance quickly at the small text on one side of the Migration art. 75,000 Euros.
Godverdomme, Lex.
She’s right, I can’t afford it. I probably can’t afford any of the smaller pieces either.
The heat increases and I have the very real and very sudden urge to be outside, in the cool dusk air, away from Marjolein’s cold stare and Lex’s fantastic, fantastic art.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, and then I walk swiftly away, keeping my head bowed as I leave the gallery. I have the door in my sights, and I reach out a hand to open it, but when I expect the brass doorknob to touch my skin, nothing happens.
And theneverythinghappens.
The door jolts open and hits me in the face, square on the forehead. A blinding pain has me closing my eyes, and a fear of blood has my hands rushing up to cover my face, eyes squeezed closed.
“Oh, fuck!” somebody exclaims, possibly me.
Hands are on my elbows, and I’m moved slightly to the side.
“Fuck, that hurts,” I say in English or Dutch, I have no clue.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” somebody says, the person holding my elbows. They’re definitely speaking English. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Everything okay?” Marjolein’s voice comes from further away. In one big flood of sensations, I’m aware of my heat again, the stuffiness of the room, the way Lex’s art makes me feel, the way I miss xem so much, the way it still hurts so much that xe left me the way xe did. And fuck, my head… It feels like my forehead is splitting open.
“Get me out of here,” I say in English to the person holding my elbows. “Please get me out of here.”
“Okay,” they say, and with my hands still covering my eyes, I let them lead me outside.
Chapter Three
Mari
When she finally drops her hands, I sigh. For two reasons.
Firstly, with relief because she’s not bleeding. Her skin is intact, and whatever bruise I likely gave her is yet to blossom.
Secondly, I sigh because she’s beautiful. A tall, slim woman, of a similar age to me, she has a long and perfectly triangular nose and a slightly pointed chin, like it’s the base point of a heart. Her cheekbones are high, as is her brow, but between them are sparkling grey eyes that I can imagine looking blue in some lights and green in others. Her lips are a darker pink than I would expect from her fair colouring, and that has me studying them longer than is perhaps socially acceptable after I’ve just smashed a door into her face.
“I am so sorry,” I say when she finally looks at me after checking her fingers for blood. “I didn’t see you, and I just–”
I stop talking when I see she’s shaking.
“Are you okay? Are you cold?” I start unwinding the scarf I have wrapped around my neck approximately ten times. It was my first crochet project ever, and it’s far too long and far too colourful, but I love it very much for reasons I do not wish to think about right now.
“No, I’m not cold,” she says finally, and I drop my scarf. “I think I’m in shock.”
“I’m not surprised; I really hit you hard.”
Her eyes narrow on me, and a ghost of a smile pulls those raspberry-coloured lips.
“I really am sorry,” I say again now I have her eye contact.
“Don’t be,” she replies with a smile that is more real. “I probably needed it, to be honest.”
