Prelude

2. The art teacher

1.

The first time you see him walking, he is wearing the white shirt he always wears on mondays. You don't know that yet.
He walks on the room full of light and air, paintings hanging on the walls. The sound of his shoes on the wood floor are soft. He barely touches the floor.
You see him walking with his hands under his pockets.
He looks mature, all serious and calm, looking at each of the paintings. But the way he sometimes brushes his messy brown hair, unveils his real age. He is taller than you. But must be just the same age as you.
You hear his voice when he enters. He always smile to the guard on the entrance. You wish he could wave you too, but you scape everytime you see him coming.
Later, you start walking behind him, silently. You know he is indeed paying attention to each of the paintings, as he doesn't seem to notice anything outside that. Not even you. He takes his time. Walks slowly, watching every step.
You look at the way his neck elongs, looking at a small detail on top of that painting on the corner. The way the light shines on his profile. His small eyes tracing circles on the small portrait. You keep looking, your lips shaking a little. He turns the corner, arrives to the second hall. The round hall with the big window that leads to the garden. He keeps walking slowly. His hands swinging, from his pockets to his hair, to his nose. His eyes widens when he finds the painting. You blush.
He looks more intriguing than any painting hanging around here. He puts his hands on his waist, and looks at the big painting hanging at the center of the hall. A small bench in front. He sits down. He looks.
You keep walking around the hall. Pretending to look at the paintings, although, you know them by memory. It's your job here, after all. He keeps looking.
He drops his weight on his arms, behind his back. His neck stretches, and his chest inflates. He sighs. You tremble.It's summer. He is wearing only that white shirt he wears on mondays. Every monday. He takes another deep breath, and closes his eyes. You stare at his chest growing, and the lovely shadow his eyelashes traces under his eyelids. You almost stumble with the wall. Shit.
He hears the echo of the "crack". He turns to see you. But you run away quickly. Faking to look at the papers you are carrying on your folder. Fighting the heat growing on your face. Feeling him looking at you, while you scape.
You hear him getting up from the bench. You hear his steps fading away.
You hear the door closing.You hear your breath coming out from your lungs. Thick and shaky.
You close your folder. And you walk back to the entrance.

2.

He started coming when the first Turner's paintings arrived. You know he might likes them. You can't know if he came before, as you started to work here the same time as the Turner's.
It's your job explaining those to the visitors. It's been a month.
He comes all mondays and thursdays. He always stays half an hour, and leaves. Smiling. You smile too. And then you sigh, deceptioned of your incapability of talking to him. You could if you wanted. It's your job.
Although, he has never asked for your help. So you have stayed there, in the shadows, watching him, with your heart melting. Waiting.But the exhibition is about to finish. This weekend is the last. You look at your feet. Your chest feels heavy and itchy. You know you will regret it.
You know you will.

3.

It's thursday. He arrives. As usual, you hide behind the desk. You hear him talking with the guard. His voice is grave and soft. And his smile is goofy, when the guard compliments him from being such an art lover. God. He is so beautiful smiling.
You hear him walking, passing in front of the small desk where you wait. You only have to wait until he enters the hall, so you can follow him. As you always do.
He stops. You freeze. Looking at the non senseless papers on your folder. You fix your glasses nervously.
"Hi", he says softly. Oh no. He is talking to you.
Your legs start shaking, as you slowly look up.It's the first time you see him so close. You need strength not to fall from your chair, as your eyes meet hims.
His feline eyes fixes on yours, and his lips curves on a tiny smile.
"Hello...can I help you?", your voice is shaking. He will know. You breath deeply, close your folder to escape his look. But their eyes don't run away. "Yes", he answers softly. You think you heard a small chuckle. He knows. Fuck.
"I want to take the guided tour", he says. And your lungs stop working. You get up quickly.
"Please follow me", you say with a robotic voice you didn't knew you had.
You start walking, hearing his footsteps close to you.