Not a Bookstore Romance

Not a Bookstore Romance 

He came because he wanted to check out the new exhibit. They came because they were exhausted, and knew she could recharge there. She came because she wanted the money, and to show her bosses she deserved a promotion. Phone in his pocket and a few free hours ahead of him, Everett crossed the concrete floor and walked over to the grey decal they put next to every art piece. “Untitled” by David Milner. He sighed. It was always untitled, and that frustrated him. He wanted to know what the artist was thinking, wanted a decision to have come from David Milner’s computer into the hands of the installation staff. 

He would blame it on the local art gallery, but he knew it wasn't at fault. He had been to other museums, every one he could drive to reasonably without going outside the state of Pennsylvania. The one near his college was his favorite. The artists changed routinely, and it was museum-quality installation, without the insane membership fees, so the gallery wasn’t liable for the vague titles. It was just an artist thing. They liked to give the audience pause, or maybe they were just lazy. Maybe all artists were supposed to have untitled works. Maybe it left room for something… bigger. He was chasing that idea, and the idea of labels in general, down the hallway of his mind when he heard the usual click of heeled boots. Paloma, the day watch. He waved to her politely. She was as much a part of the art museum as the frustrating “Untitled” labels, and was always there when he stopped by. 

She liked Everett. Liked the way his young eyes studied the work, reminding her of her own college years. From prospective artist to art historian to docent and then demoted to guard when she moved here, she was still working on proving herself in Pittsburgh. This art museum could do much better than the docent they currently had, in her opinion. Not that she could let the docent know that. She should be retired somewhere in France, walking by the Louvre with a coffee, but everyone had always told her there was no money in the art business. So she came back, each day, always early, always the picture of a responsible security guard. Her husband was happy to be the breadwinner of the family, but she wanted to contribute something, and she enjoyed seeing Everett. He came by often, a gallery cat, and she could appreciate anyone who could appreciate art. 

A teenager with blue frizzy braids came rushing in, someone Paloma hadn’t seen before. She glowered at them. The new-comer had loud, heavy footfalls and groaned, stretching her back when she walked in. “Shh,” Paloma warned them, not wanting the roughness of the street inside the gallery. Their head shot up, revealing tired, ringed eyes and a mouth that hadn’t smiled all week. Even though senior year was supposed to be all hope and yearbook signings, life wasn’t going exactly as planned. But as they took in their surroundings, up at the bright cylindrical LEDs, down at the polished concrete, around at the wiped-white walls, the smallest of smiles threatened their pointed features. They had a backpack slung over one shoulder and on it was a collection of pins. The canvas was coming apart near the zippers but a few buttons still hung on to the charcoal fabric. A pronoun badge with “she/they” written in big purple letters sat proudly at the center with a “u succ” plant pin next to it. She walked through the room with quick strides and collapsed onto the bench in the center, the one that in any other museum would be wooden and slatted and hard to discourage loitering, but one that here was cushioned with colorful pillows puffed just enough to be an invitation to sit down. Everett stared at them for a second before shaking his head and turning to another piece, this time a sculpture. 

He bent down, with one knee raised and one on the floor, a respectful distance from the pale green statue situated on the ground. Squinting at it, Everett found it was ceramic, but glossy and etched with darker navy. He mused that the artist was trying to make a statement with its placement, and was delighted to find a title up above, even if it was something as generic as “The Sea”. This art museum was his usual refuge from the bustle, but he secretly liked the city. He grew up in Allenstown, which was by no means small, but didn’t have quite the college atmosphere he enjoyed now. He liked the slight quickness of Pittsburgh, the progressiveness, whereas his hometown was clinging to the past with their liberty bell museum. 

Pittsburgh was quiet, even in the summer, and in the time between the snow and the wave pools, only the locals remained. There were loners in coats, still cold from the spring air outside, a little girl, grabbing at her parents’ legs, a few older couples with fluffy white hair, all glad to have memberships and to have the time to visit the new art. They all milled around, stopping long enough to at least appear as if they were thinking hard about each piece. 

The security guard looked between the teenagers. The new one seemed comfortable enough, and Paloma wondered if they only came when it wasn’t her shift, the last hour before closing when the burly night guard came to watch over the silence. The two teens would be a cute couple, his sparkle and her exhaustion, Paloma thought. But when Everett glanced over to them, they didn’t notice. Her straight teal hair was done up in two wide braids, with enough of her brown roots grown out to look cool, not just unkempt. They had on red sneakers and a bright yellow zip-up jacket, and Everett got a kick out of realizing her outfit held all three primary colors. She glanced up, and he quickly moved his line of sight back to the sculpture. The newcomer considered the boy, repaying his stares. He was attractive in the you’re-at-the-peak-of-your-life-physically-and-interested-in-art-way. But not really her type. 

This wasn’t their usual time to come to the museum, but art was the medicine for burnout, and when they glanced around, they realized there was a new artist on display. She squinted at one of the signs, and her migraine came back in full force. Sighing, she unearthed the beaten-up ibuprofen bottle from her backpack and swallowed a couple, dry. They didn’t want extra attention from the unfamiliar security guard. She was fine, but appeared old-fashioned, with her pale pink peplum blouse and her thin, creased black slacks. Not her usual friend at the door. As they looked around the gallery, one of the paintings jumped out at them. They dragged themself forward and stood next to the boy, both of them considering the sienna brush strokes on the hand-woven canvas. “Hm,” they said together. Laughing at themselves a bit, they leaned back. 

He looked at her. Their hair, loud and deviant, their primary color outfit. They were beautiful, he realized. Objectively beautiful. The kind of person he would choose to have a crush on. But there was no need for pretending here. He loved the gallery for that reason. They were just people at the art museum, the trees billowing outside, the quiet contemplation of the patrons, no expectations or lies. 

He clicked back into the present moment, enamored by the gallery once more. Everett moved toward the bench, where he found the striking stranger seated now, facing away from him, staring at another piece. 

He sat down, and her eyes bore into him, daring him to go outside of his comfort zone and talk to her. Taking stock of his surroundings, and hers, his eyes focused on the backpack. 

“She/they? Sweet! I’m aro,” he said quietly, smiling at her button.

“Aro! Nice to meet you. Uh, your pronouns are..?”

“Oh no, I meant I’m Aromantic.” He laughed a bit, awkwardly, worried he’d gone too far, too fast “My name is Everett, I use he/him pronouns”

“Cool I’m Alex,” they responded, easily.

He instantly felt relief, no butterflies, just quiet admiration for this fellow museum lover whom he had never met. They both sat there chatting for a bit, curious about the other’s reason for risking being the only teenager in the building. A year apart, Alex was a senior at the nearby high school, and knew several of Everett’s classmates. They were shocked to find out he was majoring in journalism but he shamefully said something about practicality and about how he might transfer majors to something more artsy later. 

The security guard was beaming ear to ear now, thrilled to see her romantic daydreams playing out in reality. Paloma thought about their future together, how Everett would obviously take her out on a date, how it would carry them from a spring fling to a summer romance. Sighing, she used the daydream as a key to her memories, back to the early days of her marriage, escaping from the imposing walls of the gallery. 

Alex squinted at a second sculpture and without a word the two of them walked around the gallery, a foot of space between their converse and his vans, primary red, and deep blue. Their tiredness was dissipating with time, and they were pleased to have found an unlikely friend, at an art gallery, no less! This was not the norm in Pittsburgh, and she had returned enough times to know which people in an art museum to avoid, especially one in the swing state of Pennsylvania. Everett seemed lovely. He wasn’t interested in her like that and he loved art and didn’t ask anything too weird about her gender. He was a perfect rarity, like blue skies in February. They talked for a while longer, laughing quietly about art titles and labels and her outfit’s palette, when he pointed it out. 

Paloma remained, taking on an extra shift that day while her colleague was out sick. She didn’t mind, especially with the overtime bonus and getting to see the love in the air. She would be there for a while, thinking about Everett and Alex’s new relationship and seeing the gallery empty, and then go quiet. 

The speaker warned 10 minutes until closing, and Everett slowly moved towards the door, hoping Alex would follow. She took one last picture of the oceanic sculpture on the floor and walked back to the cushioned bench, where her belongings were still spread out. Zipping it closed and tugging the strap over her shoulder, she crossed the floor with her old backpack, a few steps behind Everett. The security guard’s brown eyes were twinkling with intrigue, and they decided they much preferred the large, tattooed night guard. Paloma raised her eyebrows, expecting a gush of teenage excitement and the romantic reveal she was waiting for. She wanted to hear all of the gossip. Maybe they would go out to dinner next! Maybe he would pay and walk her home and they would share a kiss at the door! Instead, Alex stayed quiet. Shrugging at her, they headed out the large glass door, into the sunlight of spring and friendship.