Waiting
He did not come.
Always encouraging, Mom had tried to talk me out of it.
- My poor girl, when will you become serious with your two-penny Prince Charming stories? And that boy, you've only seen him once!
Matthew, I had met him while queuing for a show at the Met. A rather jovial guy with a slightly tired suit. He approached me directly.
- Do you like painting?
I had a hard time suppressing a smile.
- No not at all. I am there by chance.
- No kidding! It's not banal, that... Me, I don't know, it depends. If it's pretty, I buy a poster for 10 cents. I have a whole collection.
Matthew had a nice salesman's head, hazel eyes and a floppy hat.
We strolled through the rooms of the museum together. Sometimes he stopped in front of a painting, crossed his arms and nodded approvingly.
- It's beautiful. It is...
Words failed him. So I came to his aid by completing his sentences.
- Is it bright and colorful?
- Yes, that's it, it's the case to say it. You find that too, don't you?
On leaving, he had offered to meet us the next day in a cafe on 42nd Street.
I waited for him for an hour.
I pack up my shoddy illusions, I go home.
Arrived at home, mom looks at me with her air of "I told you so".
- By the way, she says while setting the table. There was an accident near Lincoln Highway. You were around, right? A guy got hit by a car. He had a bunch of flowers knocked over in his hand, wrapped in a Met poster.
I had a dizziness, not much, at the edge of the eyelashes…
© Fabrice Roy 2023
In his art history lectures, Fabrice Roy combines the past with the present, in a poetic and playful evocation of the French 19th century...
