The Desperate Man in Love

I always liked observing her in the tranquil silence of the museum. I could see her face remain still, but I had gotten good enough to identify her micro-expressions: her lips pulled down at black-and-white pieces, but her eyes squinted a little harder when she looked at abstract works. Her name was Mary.

Today, her brown hair was pulled up into a tight knot on the top of her head, small pieces framing her face. She was not wearing makeup, which I thought looked just as good as when she came in with it. A green dress flowed against her tan legs, and she danced around the room as she looked at the different frames of work. She herself was quite mesmerizing to look at. Shining around every day, so carefree.

Considering I worked here, I had nothing to do but watch the museum guests. I paid special attention to the regulars because why would you pay to return every day to look at the same artwork? It always confused me.

She was always my favorite, a bottom fact. Her graceful presence filled the room, and you could feel the energy change when she entered for the day. She carried a canvas tote bag with a notebook and charcoal set, and often sketched after reflecting on paintings. She was absolutely perfect. How could anyone truly measure up to her? Years of watching proved that to me. She was the one and only woman for me, and I would take her to see the elephant.  

What did I have to add to the table? I was not too bad in the look department myself. I’ve had my plethora of fans; I was vibrant and lively. Van Gogh could not have portrayed my looks with justice. Sorry. I bet you’re tired of the museum references. Trust me, I am too. It’s all I think about after spending my days here.

When the museum closes, I like to take the night to myself. I sit in the dark and rest, often reflecting on the regulars of that day. She comes up in my mind regularly. Mary. Throughout the night, I feel her; the lack of her presence causes my heart to ache. I missed her. I doubt this was one-sided. She would stand with me during the day and ask me questions. She was interested in my life, no doubt about it.

Today, when she sat down at the bench before me, she began her routine. I’d grown to know each step, starting with her rolling up whatever sleeves she wore, this time a dress. Then, she carefully set her bag to the side of the bench, pulling out her notebook gingerly. She grabs her charcoal, sets it all on her lap, and then looks up at me. She bites her lip and remains silent for a few minutes, studying my frame.

“Hi. Nice to see you again.” She smiles but then returns stone-faced.

I say nothing. I keep up my mysterious façade.

She is seriously dashing. Her dress perfectly brings out the green of her eyes.

“You know, every time I see you, I feel different. How do you do it?” She begins to sketch in her notebook, shading in the corners.

This step takes the most time of her routine. At least an hour, just sketching and shading and stroking. She looks up at me, then at her notebook, then back to me.

After her sketch is done, she closes her notebook and returns her charcoal to the tote. Then she lowers her sleeves and gets up. This is definitely my least favorite part of her routine because this is when she leaves me. She goes and gets lunch at the café, but when she returns, she chooses another bench to sit and sketch on.

Mary runs like clockwork. I have grown to appreciate the politeness of being on time, especially after working here. The museum directors often did not feel that time was important, and we would open hours late. How careless, they were people of shoddyocracy. Mary would never disrespect anything like that. She was careful, she was caring. She was a perfect specimen of green eyes and brown hair. A woman of force and grace. Mary.

How long had she and I had this relationship? Years, undoubtedly. I had lost count of how many days I had been here, but it did feel like years. And every day, she would come to me and study me and sketch her feelings. I knew that when we finally got together, she would thank me and appreciate me for all the feelings I roused from her. I would end up in her home. In her bedroom. I would.

Yes, I understand what you guys are concerned about. Our age gaps. I was slightly older than her, but I would provide her with a more mature and manly perspective that she would grow to appreciate. I had long hair that would couple perfectly with hers in a couple portrait, and her nose would fit in the crook of my neck. It didn’t matter about age gaps or anything; we were perfect for each other.

After years of meeting daily, I was beginning to believe that things would change for us. She comes in and takes her time on every bench, but today, she pauses before me. She looks at me and studies my face, and her face does not remain stone-faced. Her lips turn into a very severe frown.

“What happened to you?” She asks, her tone sounding worried.

Oh, heavens. What had happened overnight? Did I not receive my eight hours of beauty sleep? I rest often.

I try to look my best, remaining enigmatic and presentable. I had no idea what Mary was talking about, and I didn’t want to let her down. She doesn’t sit on the bench, but instead goes to alert someone of my condition. I can hear her across the silent room of the museum, and I watch as she mouths words.

“What happened to the desperate man?”

Desperate? I feel a knife through my heart. Pain echoes through my body as I feel Mary and I’s relationship split into two. Desperate? Absolutely not. How could a pathetic woman like her say that about me? She sits here every day and sketches for hours. That was tragic. Not me. But I suppose I could forgive her. She was exquisite. A couple like us together would turn heads. That was all I had to think about at the end of the day.

The person she was talking to answered her. “We are shipping it off. Heading to a new museum off the coast. Buyer’s orders.”

Mary returns to me. She looks at me with worried but caring eyes. I look at the green and watch as a single tear falls from her face.

“You were always my favorite. Bottom fact.” She chuckles then, like that was a little joke. “Courbet always had a way with emotions. Goodbye, Desperate Man.”

She leaves, and I understand that was the last time I saw the meater. Mary was gone, and I was never going to see her again. I was just a desperate man in a frame on a museum wall. Never enough for a woman like Mary. A painting on a wall, a man so small. Whatever the rhyme, I knew that this was the end of Mary and me. A man in love with a woman he could never get, a man trapped by frames and oil and canvas.

Gustave Courbet was a cruel man.