Artful Dodger

"Just steal someone, and then you are done!"

"A gallery patron? An exhibition attendee? A…”

"Whatever!"

We met by happenstance at the museum. Then, we were off to the gallery across the street. I thought things were going well, but something didn't click. Emily was done with me, and I had no clue why.

My opening play for her attention was an imaginary escapade with a speeding getaway boat, confused gendarmeries in hot pursuit, and shots in the dark. My easy insults for modern art, "Anyone can do that!" and "Look at all the cracks on that one over there!" kept missing the mark. Things came to a head with a less well-known Renoir that she found appealing.

"It's from his later period, you know!" She traced the outlines of the portrait, babbling about brush strokes and bamboozled art critics, while I got lost in the garish gilt-covered wood that framed everything in that part of the exhibition.

Like people do when they know they aren't being listened to, she finally looked straight at me—eye to eye—long enough so that I imagined how Renoir might have painted her, with brooding darkness about a sea of unfathomable blackness. 

"You have no imagination!" I said.

"And you have no appreciation for art!" she replied, turning on her heel.

#

The gallery café was a favorite stop for those in the know. Tucked away in its own space under skylights, it supported as many natural trees as ornate tables, branches dipping low about the twinkling tabletop candles so that you might imagine a sudden fire would only enliven rather than disturb the ecological décor. I had followed Emily at a distance, recalibrating, resetting.

"May I?" I asked in my most polite tone.

I sat before she could reply, more aware of her than anything I had seen that day. Emily had soft brown hair and a beautiful, dreamy look in her eyes. I could not imagine what she thought as she fondled her café mocha. I ventured again onto the battlefield.

 "You said something about stealing customers."

She looked surprised. "I said what?" She laid her coffee down. "Oh, that! Well, you put me up to it!"

"How so?"

"Stealing art! You talked constantly about movies where art gets stolen. We're all works of art. Everything is!"

"And…"

"You don't get it?"

"Seriously, I don't."

She laughed. "Art opens you up to life. It makes you pay attention to what really matters."

"Which is?"

"Everything!"

"So, stealing art is absurd?"

"Exactly!"

#

I had to give it to her. She had a point. And I knew not to press it. We parted after I got her cell number.

Now, she was busy. Hmm. Her cat had to go to the vet, and her plants needed watering. Yeah, and a friend was in town for the entire weekend. We might get together sometime. She'd let me know.

Damn phone. Scroll up and down. No text. Wrote one that was super long and deleted it. Then, I wrote another and deleted that one.

Cary, one of my coworkers, might know what's up. It was problem #37.

"You know, Pete. It's complicated," she sighed, shuffling papers at her desk like she wasn't overworked enough. "I haven't seen Emily in a while. Not since she went to work for Brad and Fitch."

"But you two keep up, right?"

"I don't know what to say."

Which was as close to an outright lie as she could get.

#

Drizzle. No umbrella; it's not cool to have one. Let everything soak and say it only hurts until it doesn't, like wearing a T-shirt in February.

She'd exit any moment from that grey monstrosity of a building that dwarfed everything. I pictured her in a blue raincoat. Too sensible for anything else. Fiveish now, getting late with traffic in a rush. There she is!

It was like a video game. Running up behind Emily, ever closer, like a thief, with a magic spell, I squeeze by sodden passersby.

In a panic. What else? If I touch her shoulder from behind, she screams into the crowd? What then?

That's when I tripped and splashed into a puddle, groaning to the ground. Ah! I'm stuck in the graphics! There's no way out!

"Peter, is that you?" she exclaims. She helps me up.

"I wish it wasn't," I said. "But I had to see you."

#

Oh, to be Pinocchio without a long nose and big ears! Where to begin? Coffee and sympathy in yet another café not far away. Or is it not far away enough?

I could see rain streaming down the glass-pane windows, with condensation answering on the inside. I streaked the windows with my fingers, allowing droplets to dribble onto our table.

Emily frowned but said nothing, her face visible more in off-and-on moments; the darkening sky and booming lightning jangled our light. I wanted to say anything, but I hardly knew where to begin.

"It's funny how art goes," I started. "You know that meat in bottles modern art exhibit from twenty years ago?"

"No."

"Well, they had to throw it out because the meat developed botulism. It was toxic, a health hazard, with seventy-seven thousand dollars down the drain."

"You don't flush meat down a drain," she said.

'Yeah, sure you do," I replied. "Metaphorically speaking."

She shrugged her shoulders and stared at her cell. "Speaking of which, it's my turn to cook tonight. My roommate and I have this thing going. Dueling gourmet meals. It's my turn."

"I'll go shopping with you!" I offered. "I could help you with the groceries…"

"How did you know I still had to get everything?"

"Just a lucky guess."

#

Oh, the stores she went to! One place for meat. Another for bread. Yet another for veggies. I insisted on paying for the wine. She gave me this sly look.

"You want me to invite you for dinner!"

"Oh, not exactly!"

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"Well, art is an acquired taste. I wouldn't want to spoil the anticipation."