I was not meant to cover the show.Art had never been my area of expertise, but as luck would have it, a desperate colleague enlisted my help at the last minute. I had groaned at him initially, explaining that I was not an on-call journalist.I was no longer at that age where I possessed the energy to run around the city covering openings and over the top events, but then I had heard the exhaustion in his voice and the faint gurgles of his newborn and something in me softened. I agreed to take on the article and felt a flutter of excitement as I did so. I suddenly saw the assignment as an opportunity, an alluring chance to revisit a more spontaneous time in my life, in my career.This gallery show he was requesting I attend in his stead had sounded much too hip for me, a far more glamorous production than the small literary gatherings I had been writing about for the past ten years. Parties where whispers were much more common than music and the crowds tended to consist of bookish academics as opposed to eccentric elites.My first thought, shallow as it may be, was what in god’s name I might wear to something like this. I thought of my small closet, filled only with colorless, practical items, the type of clothes that allowed me to exist in the city unnoticed, unremarkable. I have found, over the past few years, that being invisible makes my job a hell of a lot easier.I glanced at the time on my laptop, which still lingered on the page of the gallery opening. I had four hours before the event started, giving me just enough time to find something appropriately stylish to wear. The key to journalism was blending in, adapting to your surroundings, and tonight, my surroundings happened to be Mia Harper’s art show.Chapter TwoI followed a young crowd, buzzing with energy and excitement, into the brightly lit gallery, cringing at the intensity of the fluorescent bulbs.I guessed it was necessary for pieces to be cast in the proper light but my forty-year-old self had long been avoiding this sort of exposure. I had to admit though, I felt good walking into the gallery, dressed in a slinky black slip, sleek fabric clinging flatteringly to my frame.I glanced at myself in the glass doors at the entrance, taking in my own glamour, the faded tattoos that scattered the skin of my arms, small memories of moments that had long passed. I looked young, I thought. I looked like my old self, and I was beginning to feel like her, too, noticing eyes flitting over me as I sauntered into the space. It was nice to feel desired, even if only peripherally and temporarily.The paintings were large scale, loudly colored, and admittedly, very attention grabbing. There was a violent element to most of them, something urgent in the wild strokes of striking paint. They moved me in a way I had not expected them to.Modern art was not my forte but I felt something shift in me as I looked at Mia’s work, intrigued by the way it pulled at me in an almost carnal, animalistic way. I drifted towards a large canvas, drenched in vibrant reds, and tried to make out the pattern in the center. It struck me as sexual, though I could not discern a specific shape in the mess of color.“You’re looking at it too hard,” a voice behind me said, making me startle and spill a splash of champagne on the ground between myself and a very beautiful woman.“Too hard?” I asked. “I thought we were supposed to scrutinize art.”“Here,” the woman said, placing her hands on my arms. “Back up a little.” She guided me further from the painting, pulling my body against hers as she moved me. My head went light as I breathed in her scent, a smoky, sweet odor that made me want to know what she tasted like.“So it's a matter of perspective?” I questioned, turning to face the woman I at once recognized as Mia Harper, the artist of the evening.“Sometimes,” Mia said, smiling at me for a long moment before taking my hand in hers. “I’m Mia.”“I know,” I replied, tightening my grip around her palm, my pulse quickening from the feeling of her skin against mine. “I’m Molly.”“I assumed I’d see Ken here tonight,” Mia said, looping her arm in mine, navigating me through the gallery.“The new baby’s got him busy,” I said, my eyes wandering from piece to piece.“I can’t remember the last time I attended an opening without seeing Ken scribbling furiously in the corner. He’s a good journalist.”“He is,” I agreed, noting that Ken did not take the same subtle approach to the job that I did, clearly a known name in these circles.“But I’ll admit,” Mia leaned in close, her lips grazing the skin behind my ear, “I already like you better.”Read the entire short erotic story here for free: https://ift.tt/wLJqEed via /r/ebooks https://ift.tt/aXwU891
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