I felt like I was eavesdropping even though I had no choice but to hear. My fingers twitched in my lap. The silence between his sentences pressed on me. Finally, unable to sit still any longer, I stood and drifted toward the paintings.
It was easier to let my eyes wander across the art than to keep listening to him slice someone’s confidence to ribbons.
One piece of art in particular caught me—it was breathtaking. The kind of painting you couldn’t just glance at; it demanded you stop, demanded you feel something. Bold strokes, shadows interwoven with light in a way that felt alive.
“Whoever made this,” I whispered under my breath, “must’ve been a master. And it must’ve cost a fortune," I added while tracing the art with my fingers.
I hadn’t even realized how close I’d leaned in until
