***Private Exhibition***

One rainy Saturday afternoon, I stopped by the museum, where I am a member. I thought there was to be a special exhibition for members only, but I had the date wrong. “It’s next Saturday,” the woman at the information desk told me.

“That’s okay,” I responded, feeling more than a little foolish. “I’ll just wander around then.”

I like looking at art, and sometimes I like looking at people looking at art, but soon I was weary of the crowds. I wandered through galleries without paying much attention to anything, dimly aware of a sign with an arrow and the words New Acquisitions. I may have made a wrong turn. I found myself in a part of the museum I’d not explored before. I went down a narrow stairway, around a corner, another corner, through a door, and through another door with “furniture” lettered upon the frosted glass. I opened the door.

Other than the furniture—the desks, chairs, bookcases, clocks, and tables, many of them were truly beautiful, though not necessarily something I’d want in my own apartment—I was the only one there. In the far corner was a round table, and I could easily picture it in my living room, not that I could afford such a thing, but it’s always nice to dream. After studying it for some time, I took out my cell phone to take a photograph.

Just as I pressed the shutter icon, someone moved into the frame.

“Oh, sorry,” the woman said, for it was a woman, a young woman, very pretty, with dark rich russet hair and a bright red blouse—not a combination I would have thought so fortunate, but this woman, by dint of her coloring or her attitude or something ineffable, brought it off, brought it off with ease.

We looked at each other. I don’t think it was her coloring or the color of her blouse or handsome helmet of hair that I was thinking of, not explicitly. I don’t know what I was thinking of. She said, “I hope I didn’t ruin your picture.”

That brought me out of my reverie or trance or whatever it was I’d been in. I glanced at the viewing screen. I looked at the woman again. “Ah, no,” I said. Then I added, “It’s a beautiful table, but not nearly as beautiful as you.” If you knew me you’d know I’d never say such a thing. I’m a shy person. Reserved to a fault. I fear I blushed.

Smiling sweetly, the woman said, “What a sweet thing to say.”

Again, or still, we seemed unable not to look at each other. I knew something was expected of me, but I didn’t have any idea what; no words came to mind, but unthinking, I blurted, “It’s true. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Oh, no, not at all.”

And still we looked at each other. Her eyes were ... I hadn’t any idea. I was seeing her at some inner level.

“Um, would you like me to email you a copy of the picture?”

I turned the phone so she could see it, and she stepped nearer, quite near, and one of her hands lightly held my wrist, the other rested against my shoulder. Her thumb took my pulse. Her aura took my breath.

“It is a nice table,” she said. “Kind of bare, though.” She released me and stepped away. “Isn’t it?” Her tone, mild up to now, was almost sharp, demanding, but her eyes continued to grin.

“You think it needs something on it?” I ventured.

“Maybe. Maybe something ... beautiful? Does anything come to mind?” While she waited for me to answer, her fingers went to the top button of her blouse. She teased it open. Then the next and the next and the next.

“Yes,” I said, softly, after each button. “Yes, yes, yes yes yes.”

Naked, she mounted the low platform, stood sideways from me at the circular table, spread her legs, and bent forward until her upper half was resting upon the table, a plump nipple pressed slightly to the side of her smallish, barely squashed breast. She reached back and with both hands gripped the smooth flesh of her girlish bottom. Grinning naughtily at me, she pried herself apart. “Aren’t you going take the picture?” she asked. So transfixed was I by her beauty, by her actions, by her, that I’d forgotten I was even holding the cell phone camera. I looked at it blankly.

“You know,” she said, an adorable lilt to her voice, “if you were sitting on the chair you’d probably have a really good view of my cunt and my asshole.”

I nodded dumbly.

She laughed, a light, good-natured little laugh, a stern giggle, if there is such a thing, and said, “It’s too bad sitting on the chair is strictly forbidden.” Then she stood up, hopped off the platform, reached her arms around my neck, and drew me into a kiss, a kiss which, essentially, has never ended.