WYATT HAD A hunch that he would be falling in love that evening, which wasn't anything new since he fell in it all the time.
His sister called it a hobby, how shattered he would get from a failed relationship before quickly bouncing out of his slump when the next boy came along. It looked like fate always left him in the position of tripping into an emotion that he didn't necessarily grasp the concept of but enjoyed anyways, one too many times.
It meant getting caught in a constant loop of wishing he was love proof and yet craving the flurry that came with talking to a potential new boy: the highs and lows of getting to know a person beyond Snapchat streaks and dick pic requests. He hated and loved that it was so complicated.
When they pulled up at the front of the brick-wall building that housed the art gallery―he'd read somewhere that it had historical significance, which explained its vintage feel―Vanda waited in front of it, wearing a flowing summer dress that fell just over the top of her thighs, and high-heeled ankle boots.
He immediately wished he'd gone for extra instead of taking Tobi's advice.
"Hey bitch," Wyatt said, sliding out of the car and into the wrath of a pair of brown eyes.
They had never been close, the two of them. It didn't matter that Tobi was the kind of guy who encouraged his best friend and on-and-off girlfriend to be friends; they just weren't on the same wave length. It was a vibe thing.
"Funny how an archaic word which has been used to demean women since the fifteenth century is the first thing you say by way of greeting."
Vanda's gaze narrowed as she geared up and he sighed, because she had her feminist face on.
"The use of language that objectifies women and inadvertently shames our sexuality, as a form of endearment, should be one of the lowest points in human history."
"Oh please, spare me."
Tobi came between them as she took a threatening step towards him and Wyatt sniggered.
"I'm scared for my life," he taunted, "Keep her away from me."
His best friend shook his head long-sufferingly. "Head on in dude, we'll catch up."
And because he was curious to see what the night had in store for him he obliged, blowing an air kiss at a still fuming Vanda.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
It turned out that a lot of people wore turtlenecks to art galleries, which would've been a very funny thing to notice if it wasn't so expected.
Wyatt flittered between displays enough to get a feel of the people around him, who seemed engrossed enough in whatever it was they were focused on. To him the entire thing rang false, peformative even.
Objectively he understood that under different circumstances he may have blended in with everyone else, gazing at paintings and picture frames long enough to have his eyes cross, tuning out the rest of the world as his brain went into overdrive and tried to make sense of everything his eyes devoured.
He fell under that small percentile of individuals who enjoyed research work of any kind, and may have even considered his almost photographic memory the greatest thing about him if he didn't look the way he did.
Even now, eyes temporarily seeking respite from whatever artistic eureka they had been fixed on glimpsed and then clung to him as he wove a path through the semi-crowded room.
With features falling just short of put together―curls tousled enough to be suggestive, eyes bored as they surveyed the room even as it looked like they would burst into flames at the slightest provocation, good or bad depending on how you read it―in a roomful of art, Wyatt Carter was a masterpiece and he knew it.
The intercom buzzed to life, followed shortly by an announcement, details of which he couldn't be bothered with as his eyes caught on the first interesting thing he'd seen all night.
It was a picture―the only one he'd seen that wasn't in black and white―tucked into an almost deserted corner of the room, probably because this section boasted mostly disturbing images with no correlation: a shorn off pony tail tied around the slender neck of a model who was faced away from the camera; a pair of scissors placed directly beside a bouquet of roses (stems cut), it went on.
At the center of this cacophony stood the explosive, haunting, oil-on-lining painting of people dancing, and it would've ended there if most of them didn't have tear tracks running down their faces, shoes ragged, feet bloody as their bodies remained caught in various levels of dance; contortions, twirls, and leaps, all immortalized.
Its title read, simply, Happiness; but anyone with a functioning pair of eyes would be able to tell that it had nothing to do with the emotion.
At once Wyatt felt nauseous, his emotional response visceral enough to have goose bumps break out all over his skin, gut lurching.
At the entrance he'd been told to switch off his cell as there was a no-phone policy, and so his brain kick started, clearing away cobwebs as he attempted a memory-check on why the scene painted seemed so familiar.
He felt a presence come up from his rear just as a soft voice with heavy undertones of a Bronx accent murmured, "What the fuck?"
Wyatt's thoughts stuttered to a halt as he turned to get a look at the speaker.
YOU ARE READING
Still Point ✓
Short Story'I want you to want me,' the text read, and he smiled as he shot off his reply. 'You have no idea how much I already do.' Wesley Chao doesn't believe in love and Wyatt Carter wishes he wasn't always in it, until they both meet at an art exhibiti...
