Oh, its absolutely glacial at this time of year. Im enjoying your gallery so much more.

Thats telling, Bette chided.

I know. The museum director accused me of my dwindling supply of loyalty; though, he doesnt have to know that youve been doing such extraordinary work.

Marcel

Oh stop. I know youd say the same of the Solomon, anyway. God, I hope someone in London offers me a vacancy.

Isnt it cold there, too? Bette said, pretending to be puzzled.

Oh shush. Stop being so contrary. You havent seen Alice, have you? Goodness, I havent seen her in ages.

Her posture straight, the muscles on her back defined against the modishness of her Vera Wang number, Marcel very easily made eyes turn. Those who saw her, recognized her for who she was.

Marcel was a representative from the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York and after exchanging a few more pleasantries, Bette allotted a few minutes to suck in a few hurried breaths of peace by studying a picture that, for the moment, was one that she had singled out from the rest of the photographs. It was situated at that part of the gallery where the niche it hung in had a way of drawing the beholder, first for its privacy, and another, for the impression that it gave.

She had the luxury of standing before it without anyone crossing her path, or willing her to speak to them. The power lay in the photographs model, blatant in her message of sexuality, mixed in a space between genders, and masculine because her lips were silent, evoking a will to be left alone in its power, to speak nothing so that the watcher could use none of knowledge attained against her.

As though on cue, someone tapped her casually on the back. You look dashing, Alice crooned, holding a goblet of champagne in front of her as she sidled up to speak in private.

Alice, in a white ensemble, couldnt blend into the background even if she tried. She was, in her own way, a microcosm of the gallery, her features striking in neutral white. There was little surprise that Bette found the urge to remember how it was like those few months ago before they had stopped dating

Bette took the glass of champagne gratefully, sipping to soothe the slow ache creeping to her cheeks, to her throat. She handed the glass back to Alice and gracelessly, her friend finished the rest of it: a symptom of impatience and a desire to hear some other buzz than art talk.

But Bettes senses were alive, wandering with a hunger. It crept through clusters of people, grasped one treatise and discarded the next as perfumes revealed the prejudice and price of the prospective buyer. With the champagne, the sensations were complete; its texture, briefly sharp then flowing smooth at the roof of her mouth, heightened Bettes responsiveness as well as her ease.

She found herself looking around, studying the crowd while saying, You find me dashing? Not beautiful? Bette laughed. That adjective fits the occasion.

If you can call this discourse of gender an occasion. Alice shuddered. Well look at me, Im thriving, not drowning. The arts provocative, I admit, but I can only describe a picture as much as I canmy god -was that Marcel Delaney?

I sometimes forget you actually finished university, Bette said. And yes, thats Marcel.

I want to forget I finished university, Alice replied, her expression rigid and her eyes following the brunettes quest through the gallery floor. This is way too academic for me. But, she added, stepping aside before Bette could comment. Im working at enjoying myself, so Im leaving you to entertain some valued customers -I mean, guests. She pointed at a space occupied by two gentlemen, the spot Marcel would finish her viewing of a series. Bette raised an eye brow.

Distracted, Alice continued, Youll hear from me again when Im whining to be taken home. Or not. Go impress someone; Ill see you later at dinner.

She gave her a teasing wave and disappeared. Laughing softly, Bette felt absolutely marvelous. Nothing could have made the evening any better.

~*~*~*~

TBC