Dear John (This Is Why I Left You)

IV. A Ticket

This is the ticket to the first art exhibit we saw at the Hunnington, see how it says: The Hunnington Presents "Art of the Underground: Unseen Works of Clarize Wüthrich", June 6, 2012, student matinee (door sale), 9 AM-3 PM only, please hold on to this ticket. I was pacing outside the Hunnington at 2:50 in the afternoon with hands shoved in my pockets and a head full of lies. You were late, and you know what I'm thinking now, John? It's that I never got to learn if running late was a habit of yours or not. I was thinking, thinking about how it is was a Wednesday, how stupid I must look going back and forth on an empty street, alone, probably overdressed in the A-line sash skirt my sister let me borrow, thinking if I should have worn my third favorite top instead, thinking about how much the damn tickets cost. Show up, I thought. You're just John Pryce, so what if you don't show up, who cares? Show up, screw you, prove my hate for boys wrong, show up, I'm so stupid, show up, show up, show up, where the hell are you?

"Hey," I felt a tap on my upper back, a quick poke on my lace top.

"Hi," I squeaked. Your hair was combed and dry, your lips in a shy smile and you looked like you were embarrassed, jumpy even.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I got off the bus two blocks from here." You said, and I finally noticed how sweaty you were. "I forgot the name of the gallery and got down when the driver said Huntington."

"That's Huntington Street. And what did you find there?"

"A place we can eat at later, maybe." You smiled. "I like it here better. So, what's up?"

"An art exhibit. It's the first of three in the country for my favorite artist. She rarely shows her work. You've never been here?"

"Yeah, never."

"I'm here, like, every weekend. That or Casalana's."

"Another art place?"

"Well, it's a bookstore, but they have vintage, mostly, so not many people of my age go there."

"And if you're not there?"

"Hmm," I thought for a second, "I'm at the coffee shop every morning."

"Good. I'll remember that when I'm looking for you." You said, and I savored it for a moment.

"You'll be stalking me?"

"Yeah." You smiled. "I have a habit on kidnapping girls on weekends. And who's this artist again?"

"Clarize Wüthrich, the Artist of the Underground, she's called. I am in love with her."

"I didn't know you were in the closet."

"Stop."

"And how old is this woman?"

"Umm," I thought. "Around her fifties, why?"

"So you're that kind of lesbian," you said, "Who goes for the sugar mommas."

"Shut up."

The Hunnington was warm and homey in the way I loved it best; the yellow walls, the fading murals, the rows and rows of paintings and sculptures lined up far from each other so you wouldn't have to squeeze in with other people when you stared at the paintings, unlike the State Museum where people crammed together during exhibits and identical bearded curators stared at you as if you were a thief having a look around the Victorian era furnishings. We got our tickets punched at the atrium and walked into the gallery, and there it was again, John, I saw the fifteen-year old you that I had fallen for since the day I first saw you. It was in the way you moved with your arms, the way you stared at things, the way you smiled, most of all. I could've stood there and watched you like you were a piece of art because you were, John, you were, but you led me from painting to painting that I forgot that you weren't one of Clarize's masterpieces.