Crestfallen [COMPLETED]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ - 42

Alex

"You really came," I say, surprise and pleasure laced in my voice as I step out into the open.

Joanna waits outside, beside her car.

"You asked me to," she responds, her tone casual but her eyes holding a glint of something more.

My gaze remains fixed on her, taking in her appearance.

She's wearing a blue dress that complements her perfectly, and I can't help but think how beautiful she looks.

"I was going to call for a cab," I admit, my voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

"Good for you I saved your money and time," she quips, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

I chuckle at her response.

We settle into the car, taking our respective seats. She starts the engine, and as we drive, her gaze falls on a nearby complex across the road.

"It has changed a lot," she observes, her words pulling my attention to the same complex she's looking at.

I nod.
"An art gallery opened there."

"Recently?" she asks, curiosity lacing her tone.

"It inaugurated a few months ago, I think," I reply, the realization dawning on me that we've spent these past few months living apart.

Disconnected from each other's lives and surroundings.

Her gaze remains fixed ahead there.

"Do you want to see it?," I ask.

"Okay."

We step out of the car, heading towards the gallery.

I can't help but keep my eyes on her, watching her. Of stealing a few more moments with her.

I follow her lead. And walk inside.

As we step into the art gallery, the receptionist greets us with a warm smile.
"Good evening. May I have your names, please?" she asks, her tone polite and welcoming.

I step forward, "Alex Wilson," I say, my voice steady as I offer a friendly smile.

Joanna's hesitation is barely noticeable, but it's there. I stand there waiting for her response.

"Joanna Wilson," she finally says, her voice carrying a hint of hesitation.

She continues, "His wife."

The receptionist nods, her smile widening as she processes our names.

"Alex Wilson and Joanna Wilson," she repeats, her fingers moving over the keyboard to input the information. After a brief moment, she looks up and hands us each a pass.

"Here are your passes. Enjoy your time at the gallery," she says warmly.

"Thank you," I respond, my gaze lingering on Joanna. She takes her pass, and as I reach out to take mine, our fingers brush for a moment. It's a simple touch, yet it ignites something in me.

With the passes in hand, we step further into the gallery.

My thoughts, however keep circling back to those two words Joanna said, "His wife."

Like a declaration that she's mine.
It makes something swell inside me. That's a lot like hope.

We begin to explore the artwork around us.

We find themselves in a corner of the gallery where a small gathering has emerged.
  People are animatedly discussing a particular painting displayed on the wall.

Intrigued, we join the group and listen attentively as one person after another narrates their interpretations and theories about the artwork.

A woman with glasses starts, her voice filled with excitement. "I believe this painting represents the passage of time. The swirling patterns seem to depict the constant movement and change in our lives."

A man chimes in, nodding. "I see it as a reflection of inner turmoil. The chaotic brushstrokes could symbolize the thoughts and emotions that swirl within us."

Another person offers a different perspective. "To me, it's a representation of the human experience – the highs and lows, the moments of confusion and clarity."

Joanna and I  exchange a knowing glance, appreciating the variety of interpretations, our curiosity  piqued.

In a quieter corner of the art gallery, we come across an older gentleman who stands in front of a painting, his eyes fixed on the canvas with a mix of nostalgia and knowledge.

The old man clears his throat and begins to speak, his voice carrying a gentle weight of experience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to share with you the story behind this painting that you see before us. It's a tale of love, loss, and a journey that transcends the boundaries of reality."

He takes a deep breath, his eyes glimmering with memories.

"In this painting, you see a woman standing by a bridge, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her face is a canvas of emotions – longing, hope, and a touch of sadness. The man she loves, her soulmate, has been torn away from her by circumstances beyond their control."

Joanna leans closer, her eyes captivated by the old man's words.

"But this story takes a unique twist. As she stands by the bridge, the universe around her begins to shift. Colors blur, dimensions bend, and suddenly, she finds herself in a different reality – a parallel universe."

He gestures towards the painting, his voice carrying a touch of wonder. "In this new world, she embarks on a quest to find her lost love. She traverses unfamiliar landscapes, faces challenges, and meets people who guide her on her journey. Along the way, she learns to navigate the intricate threads that connect these parallel universes."

The old man's gaze turns introspective. "Throughout her journey, she discovers that love is a force that transcends time and space. It's a bond that defies the limitations of our reality, weaving its way through the fabric of existence. In this alternate universe, she finds her love once more, their souls reuniting in a way that only love can orchestrate."

My heart swells up, listening about this tale of a love that transcends universes.

Yes. It indeed is. Love is beyond time and space. Beyond reality and nothingness.

But for me. It's just one word. Jo.

The man pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this painting is a testament to the power of love and the resilience of the human spirit. It reminds us that even when circumstances tear us apart, love has the ability to bring us back together, across universes and lifetimes."

As the old man concludes his narration, there's a collective sigh from the small audience that has gathered around us.

Joanna and I  exchange a glance, our faces bearing hearty emotions, both of us touched by the depth of the story he has shared.

We turn our gaze back to the painting, seeing it in a new light, filled with the emotions and layers that the old man's words have added to it.

We continue our exploration of the gallery, carrying with us these poignant tale of love, loss, and the endless possibilities. 

Truly, art has the power to evoke the unknown.