I glanced around the unnamed sculpture, only to see the gallery completely empty, the sounds of my sniffling laughter echoing off the domed glass ceiling.
Laughing again at how I must have scared Christoph away, I ran my hands through my messy ponytail and slapped at my cheeks. I needed to get home. Exhaustion was making me crazy.
Wistfully casting the sculpture one last glance, I made my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. As I stared in the bathroom mirror’s reflection, my heart soared that I was in this position. I was completely and utterly enthralled by this exhibition.
I was convinced that no other show I curate could hold a candle to this one. I was obsessed with these pieces. More than that, I couldn’t rid my thoughts of what the artist must have gone through in his life to create them. Nothing good, I was sure. Because of this, my heart bled for him.
Pull yourself together, Ally, I scolded myself and made a move to leave the bathroom to go home.
Just as I was about to exit the museum, I realized I’d forgotten my notepad. I had to work on the floor design when I got home; I still needed to tweak the layout. Nothing I’d done so far had worked. Something was off, which never happened to me. Turning on my heel, I briskly walked back to the gallery.
Spotting my notepad lying on top of an empty crate, I made a dash to retrieve it, when from the corner of my eye, I saw a man in the gallery, beside the angel piece.
Fearful at what he was doing here this late at night, I cautiously moved forward to get security but immediately stopped dead. The man was tall, well built and dressed all in black: black jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, long brown hair tied back in a low bun. But that’s not what caused me to stop and stare. The man was as still as the night, as he stood at the main sculpture. His hand stretched and rested upon a spread wing, his head down blocking his face. His shoulders were shaking, as if he were crying. Like he was crying for the angel.
I couldn’t move, and my chest grew tight watching this large man seemingly breaking down.
Deciding to tell Christoph, I stepped forward, but the heel of my boot clicked on the polished concrete floor. My eyes snapped to the man, who had now straightened, his face hidden by the large sculpture.
The room was noiseless as we both stood there unmoving, so silent you could hear a pin drop.
“This is a private gallery,” I eventually found my voice to say.
The man’s shoulders stiffened.
Craning my head, I tried to get a better look at him, but he seemed to anticipate the move and stepped further away from my sight.
“The gallery is closed to visitors. You really shouldn’t be here,” I added, nervously.
In a second, the man released his hand from the broken wing of the sculpture like it nearly killed him to do so. With his head firmly cast down, he turned and ran out of the gallery.
My heart pounded as I watched him retreat.
What the hell was that? Why did it suddenly feel like I was standing in a vacuum, the air from my lungs dissipated? And more to the point, why was he here this late at night, breaking down in front of the angel?
Shaking myself vigorously, I clutched my notepad and purse, and walked toward the security desk where Christoph was monitoring the screens.
“Christoph?” I called, and he looked up. I sighed and leaned on the desk. “You can’t let students sneak into the museum after hours, especially my gallery. Many people want to see these pieces up close and will do anything to get a sneak peek.”
Christoph frowned. “I assure you, Ms. Lucia, no students are getting in or have been getting in.”
I closed my eyes in a brief moment of exasperation. “Christoph, they did just now. I just this minute caught a student in the gallery, and he was touching the main sculpture. What if he’d broken it?”
Christoph got to his feet and leaned on the black granite countertop opposite me, confusion still clearly etched on his face. He lifted the sign-in book and read down the names on the page. “No, it was just the two of you who’ve been here this late.”
I was set to argue when his words finally sank into my brain. “The two of us?” I questioned, not understanding to whom he was referring.
Christoph checked the sheet again. “Yeah, you and the artist.”
My head jerked to the book he held. “El… Elpidio?” I spluttered in shock.
Something akin to butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and I struggled to talk. “Elpidio the artist whose exhibition I’m curating was here?”
Christoph looked at me as if I was insane. I was starting to concern myself with that too.
“Ms. Lucia, Elpidio has been coming in every night around this time to check on the progress. I thought you knew. Vin Galanti cleared it before you both arrived in Seattle.”