Metropolitan Museum of Art: A Met-cute story

I saw him from the corner of my eye, cloaked behind the flurry of hair flying in front of my face. I was running- fast, and hadn’t anticipated how the speed of my flight would affect my hair. I should have known. It didn’t play nice even under the best of circumstances, and these were decidedly not the best circumstances. 

My bag thumped against my thin tank top, intensifying the dampness seeping across the small of my back. Normally, I’d be grateful for a reprieve from the tyrannical sun, but the central air of the Met was cranked high in a battle against the noxious New York summer heat. Today, I was a casualty of war. My running brought fresh soldiers to the front lines who froze on contact with the artificial air. I thought about being annoyed as I shivered through the sweat, but truthfully, I was just thankful for the first bit of moving air I’d encountered all day. 

You’d think with all the water surrounding this trash island that there would be a few more friendly breezes that made it past the city’s gates. If you were still under that illusion, I’m happy to inform you that we are both dead wrong. The air sits still, locked in place by the throngs of people, cars and hot dog stands jostling to and fro. There wouldn’t be anywhere for it to go, even if the asshole air did want to move. I can prove, first-hand, that there is no such thing as a friendly New Yorker- breezes included.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh. After all, the lonely looking front desk attendant had let me in for free with a student ID card we both knew was several years out of date. Never mind the fact that it was exactly 13 minutes until closing. I could have kissed her for the sheer lack of shits she gave. I even meant it when I squealed and shouted to thank Rhonda (her name was plastered to a lopsided nametag clinging for dear life to her polyester polo). 

Rhonda is alright. Everyone else sucks.

The painting I was so desperately running to see, was located in the farthest reaches of the museum, nearly a quarter mile from the entrance. Don’t let the polished floors, stale air and pleasant lighting fool you. A quarter mile in the Met is actually equivalent to nearly two miles anywhere else. That’s just a fact.

By the time I’d reached the East wing, my breath was so ragged that I sounded like I’d just risen from the dead, dirt and microorganisms still scratching at my esophagus. My chest felt like it was going to explode from the pressure of my lungs expanding far beyond their typical size. Jesus Christ I need to do more cardio, I thought, trying, in vain, to keep my panting to a socially acceptable minimum. At the time, I told myself it was because I wanted to respect the silent sanctity of the museum, but that’s giving myself a bit too much credit. I was trying to impress him. 

He was the only other person I’d seen in my race to reach the final gallery. Three-quarters through my run, I thought I might have the great fortune to enter the Met and be the only patron in all its great halls. Having a place to yourself in this city is about as likely as winning the lottery, so the apparent disappointment plastered over my face must have been so welcoming that he just had to open his mouth. 

“Cutting it a bit close,” he whispered.

The audacity of this man astounded me. He must be brave. Or incredibly stupid. No one spoke to a stranger unprovoked. Not in this city. 

“It’s a shame we don’t have more time.”

Normally, I don’t condone such brazen flirting. A girl has the right to play a little hard to get. I believe a man (or woman) should have to earn their right to flirt with me. Luckily for him, my lungs were pumping so hard that the only sound I was capable of emitting sounded frighteningly like my Gammy Patty last time I visited her. So I decided to do something that I might regret for the rest of my days. 

I played along. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well, this is the best painting in the whole museum. It deserves more time.”

I did not, and still do not, agree with his statement, but I could not have been less interested in debating the externally defined value of art in modern society, so I settled for, “Not to worry. I have a photographic memory.” 

I usually find some way to bring this up in any conversation because it is the ultimate ‘fun fact.’ It’s also a tried and true method for pruning the weeds from my proverbial garden.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a reaction is worth a million. The groundwork had been laid, but the one variable I didn't count on was my own reaction when he turned his head to meet my gaze. 

I’ve tried to remember what color his eyes were. I’ve lied awake in agony, yelling at my brain to remember, but I cannot. I only remember the feeling. In every sappy love movie there is a scene where the man looks at the woman like he’s just discovered that she is the meaning of life. That part always pisses me off because it’s so unrealistic. It’s a stupid Hollywood trick, but Goddamn if I haven’t always wanted someone to look at me like that.

When his eyes met mine, I finally knew how the big-boobed blonde women in the movies feel. His stare was like soft, worn hands clasping my own, with the sincerity of a lifetime spent by my side.  

“A photographic memory is nice, but remembering what it looks like isn’t the point.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

I smiled then, not because I knew I was right (I totally am), but because at that exact moment I caught a glimpse of the time on his phone screen. I was perfectly on schedule.

His defiant lips parted once more but before he could squeeze out a word, I shushed him with the tap of my finger. His lips were well taken care of, moisturized and clean shaven. They were the perfect lips for kissing, but not right now because we had places to be.

With my finger still holding his lips in place I explained the situation with as much haste and clarity as I could muster, “Listen. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I would like to keep talking to you. I hope you understand how rare this is for me, because as a general rule I hate everyone.”

“I usually hate everyone too,” he mumbled under my finger. 

His lips moving across my skin was nearly enough for me to abandon everything and spend the next three to four minutes before Rhonda came looking for us with my mouth locked against his. But I held strong.

“That’s nice, but here’s the deal: I am currently competing in what you might call an elite scavenger hunt. This painting is the last clue I needed to find the grand prize, but if I don’t find it in the next,” I glanced back at his phone, “27 minutes and 53 seconds, then I forfeit the prize.”

I closed the distance between us, meeting him eye-to-eye, “Do you understand the severity of the situation,” I hissed, releasing my finger from his mouth.

“I do,” he whispered back. His voice was even and steady, not the slightest bit fazed by what I had told him. Tell tale signs of a fellow native New Yorker. 

I laced my fingers through his, settling my hand into the crook of his palm and squeezing tightly.

“I hope you’re good at running.”

I could hear him cackling in laughter as I took off at top speed, pulling him behind me. Our rambunctious footsteps echoed off the empty marble hallways, adding to the ambient soundtrack for the sprint of our lives. 

By the time we passed Rhonda, looking as unbothered as ever, I was cackling alongside him. The sun was nearly set as we emerged from the entrance, breathless and giggling. 

I loosened my grip, realizing that I’d been clasping his hand so tightly that my fingers ached. I was also curious to see if he fled at the first sign of freedom. To my pleasant surprise, I felt his own hand closing against mine, firmly holding us back together. 

“Where to next, Captain?” he asked, that same swoon worthy sparkle in his eye.

“Know a way to get to Battery Park by nightfall?”

By the time I finished asking the question, he had already hailed a cab, pulling me down the steps toward the street. We slid across the faux leather seats of the cab, breathing in the sickly sweet mixture of stale cigarette smoke and Black Ice air freshener. I knew without a doubt that there was no way we were going to make it there in time. Commuter traffic was going to take us twice as long to cut through than if we’d taken the subway. 

I knew this. 

He knew this. 

Neither of us cared. 

Even as dusk was replaced by night and the city stars clicked awake from Midtown to Soho, he never let go of my hand and I never stopped smiling.