A hush fell over the room as the curtain fell, there was gasping, fainting, and a few people said, “oh my.” It was good alright, perfectly restored, lighting recaptured flawlessly from every viewable angle within our dimension, still one question preyed heavily upon the onlookers conscious, was it a Vonstrassy? And if it wasn’t, was their praise in vain? Were they by chance, being fooled? Was this all an elaborate hoax to make a b******** mockery of art conventions everywhere? Were they pouring their hearts into a bottomless basin of false antiquity, never to be filled and see their loving face in the reflection? Some couldn’t bear it and looked away.
Floating around the perimeter, allowing his heels to scuff the faux marble ground, mostly out of self pity, however a trained posture analyzer might have diagnosed a hint of disrespect, Ronald Dutchermine, thought aloud, “funny how these expos go, one minute the jaws on the floor, the next half the rooms out the door chasing away tears of betrayal.”
Across the humbled auditorium, as if tickled by Mr. Dutchermine’s keen observation, Julia Gatsworth laughed. However she was not amused by Dutchermine’s statement, she had not even seen his lips move when he said it. What she had seen, however, was his thinning and unkempt hair line swaying unabashed as he strode detached circles around the hall’s ovular circumference. Needless to say, she liked what she saw.
Peculiar thing about people, they often see things very differently than one another, especially at art expos. Perhaps it’s the re-bending of the mind in attempt to capture the artist’s purpose which does it to gallery walkers or perhaps this special group of people is just destined to view the world differently.
Whatever it was in Julia Gatswoth’s head that made her see anything resembling charm or appeal in Ronald Dutchmine’s well traveled track around the room, making him seem more like a racecar than a man, was far more abstract than scientific intellect can grasp, thank god they weren’t at a museum.
If the room had been an enormous novelty NASCAR clock, and it felt like it, its contents trying desperately to act so precise in every action and display, but failing so miserably as they strained awkwardly in a counterintuitive spiral against any form of logic, Julia would have found herself alone at quarter after three, minute hand descending rapidly upon her. Julia was not used to this kind of unnecessary pressure; usually she was so collected, but fumbling clumsily with her napkin she felt more like she was waving a checkered flag, than making eye contact with the brilliantly subdued goggles of Ronald Dutchermine.
It was true that Dutchermine had noticed her with her napkin, but what she had delivered as a graceless flagging he saw as an innovation to embarrassment. Ronald had had a long evening, between his near completion of the Vonstrassy 500 and his clever observation, he was in no shape to mingle, however he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint his modest fan.
Exhausted, both physically and mentally, he approached her, panting with the thirst of an elderly mall walker. To his great dismay, he noticed a change taking place throughout her face, as if to say, “Who do you think I am?”
To which he replied through violent gasps, “Well, I’m Ron—ald Dutchermi—ne.”
Suddenly intrigued by what she took to be an innovative pick up line Julia’s entire mind set change back to what it had been ten seconds ago. She took his hand, he passed out from exhaustion. She thought he was playing hard to get and carried him out with her. He came in and out of consciousness begging for oxygen, she laughed shyly and took him home.
Was it love? Was it a Vonstrassy? Only time will tell.