I sat on your chair

It was inevitable. They were destined to bump into each other at some point in time. After all they were both active contributers in the arts and were invited to many of the same events.

George had hoped that his breakup with her had been as healthy as he had imagined, but was worried that the time she was given to digest their relationship had soured their sweet ending.

It was the opening of a gallery in Buenos Aires and they had both been invited to show some new work. George opted to reinstall his previous, Three Chair Events and Jenny had decided to show her recently finished piece, Arno. Though the title did not reference him in any direct way, he had a gut feeling that she had incorporated her past relationship into the work as she was known for. He could only hope that they would both be too busy discussing their pieces with patrons and reporters to have a lengthy discussion with one another.

Stabbing a tiny pickle with his toothpick and popping it into his mouth, George turned around and choked a bit. Standing a foot away from him was Jenny. Short and petite, she was wearing mismatched home sewn garments that included a light brown fleece skirt and, sea foam green leg warmers. Her hair was light brown, and cut alarmingly straight, falling just below her shoulders. The first time they met, he had found her charming and quirky, but now, standing dangerously close to him with a rather demented look on her tiny face, he found her odd, and startling.

“Hi George” she said without blinking, “I sat on your chair”.

“Really?” he said, choking on a bit of pickle juice, “Which one?” he continued, producing a half smile.

“The black one” she replied in a breathy voice.

He wasn’t quiet sure how to respond to this, as he had positioned the black chair in the mens bathroom, facing the urinals.

“So, eh, how is everything?” he said, still tasty the vinegar tang of the pickle. It reminded him of their last week together.

“Have you seen my piece yet, George? I sat in yours” she replied.

“Oh, no, not yet...I haven’t had a chance too” he said, “has she blinked yet?” he thought to himself.

“Don’t you want to see my piece, George? You were the inspiration” she answered, tilting her head a bit.

“Right now? Cause I was just trying to get a bite to eat...” he said, gesturing towards the table of hors de’oevres.

She just stood with her head propped to one side and her eyes wide with her question unanswered.

“Okay, sure...” he said, and she promptly turned and started walking out the back door. He reluctantly followed, thinking to himself what would happen if he turned and ran out the door. He could outrun those tiny bird like legs of hers.

They walked through the sea of people, many of whom gestured toward her and whispered to a partner. Others patted him on the back in congratulations for the show. She walked with a stiff fury out the door and into the night. He decided there were far too many people here for him to bolt now. Instead, he trailed a good eight feet behind her.

They came to a halt in front of the water, and stood on a small muddy hill. There were others around them, watching her words change from one language to the next and talking softly over the sounds of soft water.

“I breathe you” she said. “I talk, I smile, I touch your hair, you are the one, you are the one, who did this to me, you are my own...” she turned to look at him.

“I, uh...” he said pushing his lips out in confusion. His brow furrowed as he avoided eye contact.

“My skin, I cannot breathe, I cannot eat, I cannot walk, I am crying” she said, still not blinking.

“It’s, uh...” he mumbled.

“La Guerra, Comenzara en secreto, el romanticismo, en el amor, fue inventado” she said, the words rolling off her tongue. “She fell on the floor”.

“Who?” he asked, startled and turning his head to look at her.

“She tried to be clean, when she died” she quickly replied.

“Oh” he said and looked back at the water. This he remembered from a previous piece of hers. “Was she just reciting lines from her work” he wondered.

“The color of her, where she is, inside out” she continued, “I work the, pause in the night, when no women go about, and no, women come when called”.

“Look, I just wanted to show my chairs again, I didn’t even know you would be here until after I sent them for installation” he said in between her pause.

She cocked her head to the other side, “Before you die?”

“What?” he exclaimed.

“I see your body, on a bed, in the light. Your shirt is open, a suitor’s boast, your chest, admitting devotion, I had not expected, a claim from, a dying man” she fervently spat the words in response.

“It’s a nice piece” he said trying to change the subject. Not that they were having what could be construed as an actual conversation. He thought if he complimented her, he could somehow get out of the situation.

“Ease near me!” She yelled.

With that, he turned and began to walk up the hill. “Why bother” he thought.

“YOU ARE NO FIT, MY MOUTH PROVIDES COMFORT FOR US, BUT THE MILK, IS NO MILK, THE NIPPLE NO BREAST, THE BREASTS NOT MINE!” She yelled up the hill towards him.

He walked through the door, and could think only of the next chair he would paint.