Ushering him outside the museum, she could almost feel his
irritation. His anxiety like his emotions are now her clattered bones, as they
both strut against the pale ample marbles beneath the soles of his shoes, her
heels. Their footsteps jive with the hushes of people, whispering here and
there, over the artworks, arguing and praising over sculptures and paintings,
with a companion or a mere stranger. The
couple has always been this silent; and whenever they are not, they’ve been
arguing.
With sweaty palms and cold hands, she attempted to reach
for his shoulder, like a child keeping up with her mommy, trying to apologize,
while he hastened his steps against the col pavement. Yet, with the
repulsiveness of both of their behavior, an amusing smile dashes across her
perfect lips; because then, with the last remarks she heard, feigning anger is
much harder to restrain.
Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private
joke to herself—because at least, she knew a secret that finally, cannot fathom
his sharp senses.
-------- 0o0o0o0 -------
The sizzle from the ignited match always revived the same
memory.
James, 36, has been living with stiff ethical values.
Before he lived with his family, with a wife and two kids, he lived in a
voiceless, sanitized apartment with his solitude, commandeering his television
set and cold furnitures. No pet greets him. He had no friend across the
neighbor. No exchange of pleasantries. Always busy with his thoughts, he walks
like a zombie, with glazed eyes and a mumbling mouth. James dashes himself into
the corporate society every day, as his tie dangles around his neck like a
noose, strangling him into an exhausting day, making himself a guinea pig in a
tiresome treadmill. A taxi has always been waiting at the footsteps of the
building, catering him and the rest of the high-salaried slaves of the city.
He is always aware of his own legacy, his own name. He
claims, that the confined spaces of his own workplace is the only thing worthy
of his aesthetic, imaginative viewpoints.
On a tiring Monday of December 2002, while the wind pass
upon their puffy cheeks, as he lit a matchstick to puff an air to his
cigarette, his wife finally pose a concern she’s itching to ask for months.
“Museum?”
“Yes,
museum.”
“BAH!
Why do I need to?”
“Nothing.
Just trying to make you flesh and blood.”
-------- 0o0o0o0 -------
He forgot his eyeglasses.
Stomping
around the halls, James entertained no colors and figures around the museum
gallery. With a grumpy face, he stalls, stares and walks away with the
slightest mumble of discontent. I
shouldn’t be here, he thought, while he keeps track of tomorrow’s list of
mundane paperworks.
He regrets
forgetting his eyeglasses. He continues to cry the imperfections of the place,
condemning and criticizing each artwork, not even dared to glance at the
constellation of architectures at the ceiling; thinking, at his discretion,
that the whole museum was an apparent misuse of money, space, vacant lots and
Boysen inks.
Finally,
with an air of superiority against the hues around him, he stopped at a frame
then finally complained to his wife, “Look at this painting! The work doesn’t
clearly resemble any imaginative talents! The subject is boring, and
meaningless! The focus of the painter is at the wrong spatial perspective, and
his subject is wrinkly, boned to death, and had a poor stance!”
An amusing
smile dashes across his woman’s perfect lips. Amused and entertained, she tried
to keep the private joke to himself. If only he knew, that the last thing he tried
to demean, and that he loathe most, considering as the worst work of art, was a
huge mirror showing his own reflection.
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