Gallery Hours

I didn't plan to seduce a stranger in a museum bathroom. But then again, I didn't plan most of the interesting things that have happened in my life.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of gray November day that makes you want to be anywhere with good lighting. The contemporary art museum was nearly empty, just a few scattered tourists and one security guard who looked like he was counting down the minutes until his break.

I was standing in front of an enormous abstract painting, pretending to understand it, when I noticed her.

She was across the gallery, studying a sculpture that looked like a melted spoon. Dark hair pulled back, a fitted blazer over jeans, the kind of effortless elegance that made you wonder what she did for a living. Something important, probably. Something that required confidence.

She caught me looking and smiled, not a polite stranger smile, but something with teeth in it. Something that said she'd noticed me too.

I should have looked away. I didn't.

* * *

We orbited each other through three galleries. Never speaking, never quite meeting, but always aware. Every time I turned a corner, she was there. Every time I paused at a piece, I could feel her eyes on me.

The tension built like static before a storm.

Finally, in a small side gallery displaying provocative photography, she appeared beside me.

"Do you think they mean something, or do you think the artist is laughing at everyone who tries to find meaning?"

Her voice was lower than I expected. Warm.

"Probably both. Art is a scam wrapped in a mystery."

"Spoken like someone who knows."

"I minored in art history. Four years of learning to bullshit about things I didn't understand."

She laughed, quiet, aware of the space we were in. The gallery was empty except for us. Even the security guard had wandered off.

"I'm Nadia."

"Carmen."

-blue">"Carmen." She said my name like she was tasting it. "I noticed you about an hour ago. In the Rothko room."

"I noticed you in the sculpture garden. You were looking at me like you wanted to add me to the collection."

"Would you object to being collected?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. I could feel my pulse quickening, feel the heat spreading from my chest downward.

"Depends on who's doing the collecting."

* * *

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something dark and expensive. Close enough that if anyone walked in, they'd know something was happening.

"I don't usually do this."

"Neither do I."

"But I look at you and I want to do things I don't usually do."

My breath caught. "What kinds of things?"

"Things that would get us kicked out of this museum."

"There's a bathroom down the hall. Single occupancy. Locks from the inside."