It never ceased to fascinate her. Every Tuesday she could, Lucy would battle three trains and heavy downtown foot traffic to spend the day at the Art Institute of Chicago. She'd get there early, just prior to opening, and would stay until they were ready to shut off the lights. This was perhaps her tenth trip, and she had yet to see the whole tremendous collection that the museum offered.
She always went alone. Her parents had no use of "decorative" things, and she had no real friends to speak of. She'd never much cared for the girls at Rosary High; they were like paper dolls, two dimensional, without a mind of their own. She'd looked forward to the end of her high school with such a fever that, now that it was past her, she wondered what all the fuss was about. Since graduating, nothing had gotten better.
At the coaxing of her parents and guidance counselors, she had applied to several universities, and had no problem getting in. She even mailed off her acceptance letter to Champaign-Urbana, and got mildly excited about the prospects of college. Then she went on an orientation tour, and it became very clear to her that the Fighting Illini wanted to keep her in a box just as much as Rosary had. A bigger box, yes, but…it wasn't for her.
Not that she did know what was for her. She'd spent the last seven months hibernating, working as an order entry clerk; it was a simple, repetitive job that was on the verge of killing her spirit. Lucy still lived at home, in her parent's basement, but she was ready for that to change, too. Mostly, they tried to be kind, but were dull and weak in the way of people who've spent their entire lives doing exactly what was expected of them. As if sensing his own powerlessness, her father had a hidden rage which occasionally flared; Lucy and her mother were his only outlets.
Soon I'll move out and start my own life, she promised as she hugged herself against the shivering cold of another merciless Chicago winter. She wrapped her giant red scarf around her neck several times, but the wind still found its way to her skin. Before she had a chance to ponder her life plans further, the doors of the art museum swung open, which was just as well, given the slightly purple color of her hands.
It was always hard for Lucy to decide where to go first. Generally, she favored the modern art wing, but then, there was something utterly fascinating about artwork that had existed though hundreds, even thousands of years. She loved that you could see each stroke of the brush of chisel of the hammer. She also loved how a piece of art could look utterly different based on the distance or angle from which you viewed it. This lead to all sorts of philosophical musings on her part, which is why she always carried her journal/sketchpad in her army bag on her visits.
There were some pieces that she could stare at for hours, cocking her head, squinting, seeing all the different pictures within the picture. There were stories and thoughts and feelings hidden in each image, it just took a little coaxing to get them out. The only thing that Lucy did not like about the museum was endless line of red velvet ropes, keeping her distance held back. Oh, how she wanted to jump over those ropes and put her nose up to those priceless treasures. But she never did. Often, she would push her luck and stand at the line, leaning into the painting as far as she could. But more often than not, one of the numerous security guards would admonish her: politely, professionally.
As much as Lucy knew she'd enjoy the wonder of her favorite Matta painting, upstairs, she was intrigued by the signs announcing the current Bill Viola exhibit, and wandered towards it. It was an eighteen room installation of postmodern, multimedia works. All it took was a few minutes in the first room, and she was hooked.
Each room was a different masterpiece. Viola had designed the space of each room to create moods and pose questions, it was heady and intellectual yet astoundingly sensitive. He used audio recordings, videos and other lucid and textural elements in ways she'd never seen before. Lucy was in love with it.
Most of the museums patrons did not know how to respond to a creation of this sort; they rushed through each room in the exhibit, a minute here, a minute there. She'd heard a fur clad woman drag her partner along, "come, dear, let's not miss the Monet." Lucy would wait patiently for these distractions to leave the room, and then she would look, listen and feel, for long, drunk spells of time.
With people so consistently racing through each installation, it was easy for Lucy to notice the one exception to that rule. In stolen glances, she recognized that he was probably a few years older than her, and defiantly very cute, in a sloppy offbeat sort of way. Every so often she'd catch sight of him in an adjoining room, he seemed to be keeping pace with her.
But Lucy was painfully shy. She could not even look at him and smile. Which was fine, she decided, because she was here to get absorbed in the art, not distractingly cute guys with raggedy brown hair and duct-taped orange All-Stars. So she hurried past him, when necessary, and proceeded to forget about him. But then, a few rooms later, she'd catch another glimpse. By the time she'd finished the exhibit, though, over half of her museum time was already over, and she was certain he was long gone.
After a quick sandwich break, Lucy continued her wanderings. She lingered in Abstractionism and was getting to know Kupka intimately when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him again, turned quickly away and shrugged it off. It wasn't until she caught his eye, an hour later, at the other end of the museum, that it started to seem fishy. Trying not to seem obvious, she took a meandering series of turns, examining the collection far too quickly for the likes of her. Feeling satisfied that she'd lost him, but weary over the process, she ducked into the courtyard to have a cigarette.
In the piercing cold, she fumbled with the lighter, and dropped it in the crunchy, white lawn. Before she could even bend to pick it up, Lucy felt a sudden sweep of motion and heard the flick of a lighter. Looking up, she held in a gasp. It was him.
Too stunned to do anything else, she allowed him to light her cigarette. Mission accomplished, he bent down to retrieve her purple Bic, and handed it to her. He was smiling a sweet, impish, dimpled grin and seemed completely harmless.
"You're following me," Lucy said, softly.
"Maybe we just have the same tastes in art," he replied, the devilish smile broadening. He lit his own cigarette.
Lucy pushed a thick strand of hair out of her face, and breathed out a huge plume of smoke and cold air. "I don't think so," she replied, her voice just above a whisper.
He bent his head and shuffled his feet in mock sheepishness, then looked up to try, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye. "Okay, you got me. But, let me explain."
A few long moments went by during which Lucy examined the duct taped patterns of his shoes. He continued. "It's kind of my…hobby. Watching people, I mean. I don't do it to be creepy, I swear, it's just…interesting. I mean, there are so many things that you can tell about a person by the way they move, the way they dress, how they act and react, but for every tiny glimpse you get into a person's being…it's like there are a thousand new questions for every answer." He noticed Lucy's hands as he spoke, her long tapered fingers and neat, unpolished nails, no jewelry. She acted nervous, but she held her cigarette with authority.
He continued, "I collect people." He noticed the alarmed puzzlement on her face and quickly modified. "I mean, I'm a writer. And I like to watch people, and make guesses about who they are by seeing where they go, what they do… do you think that's terrible?"
Lucy shook her head, still watching his shoes.
He crouched down so that his face would be in her line of vision, and pointedly looked into her eyes. "I'm Cade," he said with his most disarming grin. Still bent down, eyes locked, he extended his hand in greeting.
A slow smile spread on her face as she gingerly placed her hand in his. She shook it, and he acted as if each small movement were a pump, lifting his spine back up into normal standing posture. "Much better, don't you think?" he said with a glimmer in his eyes. "And your name is?"
Her lips were pressed tightly together, but it was definitely a smile. "Lucy." Her raven hair sharply contrasted her clear, pale skin, and the red scarf brought out the rose in her cheeks, and the blush of her lips.
"Pleasure," he said, with a small bow, but never broke eye contact. Lucy had never seen eyes such as his before. They seemed to change, as they were all colors, layers of green, blue, brown, even violet; she was hypnotized by their vivid depths.
Her boldness grew. "So…after following me all day…who do you think I am?"
