They didn’t talk of Michelangelo, but of mythology, natural forms, biomorphism. She stood and watched as the people passed through the gallery. To her the sculptures resembled piles of boobs. An old man stroked the top of each as he walked past.
Every so often someone would come.
Are you the gallerist?
She would smile nervously and say no but offer help.
They would go, in search of the real thing.
Her cheeks flushed. She wandered out back through the courtyard no one was to see and into the storage room to dab her hairline, her lip. She wondered if there would be time. Would there be time? Time to prepare her face to meet the faces she would meet? And if indeed there was time would she dare?
Whether or not she decided there was time or not and whether or not she decided to dare or not she found herself once more pinned and wriggling on the gallery wall, half a smile and half a frown on her face watching the arms, braceleted and white and bare as they stroked nay caressed each pile of boobs.
This one is reserved.
For whom?
For him.
Ah.
The knowing look did little to hide the longing that grew in her eyes.
And this one? What of this one?
I can tell you on Saturday. Saturday I’ll know.
Oh. Oh. Oh. So how should I presume?
The woman was right. How to presume? How to presume in a room dedicated to presumption?
Shall she ask what she should and should not do?
As the night wore on it seemed she knew them all.
That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.
To know one was to know them all.
But she did not know if it was worth it, after all.
And she did not know what he meant in the first place. Not a bit, not at all.
It was impossible.
But still, she understood.
There would be no crisis. There would never be a crisis.
And the universe would not be reduced. Could not be reduced. Not into a ball.
Nor a pile of boobs.
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