Work's Little Surprises

Hair, I yanked the comb through it, Hmm, it needs washing tonight.

Skin, two moisturisers, one cherry-scented, to match my lip-stick.

Makeup, I swished the mascara over my black eyelashes, added a navy coloured liner and navy coloured shadow to complete the look, and then remembered to wipe concealer over the bags under my eyes.

There, I’m ready… Or as I ready as I’m ever gonna be. I doubt this work is going to be very productive.


“And this is a piece by Picasso; it’s on loan from the Louvre…”

“Ooh,” crooned the old American lady beside me. She was one of the art-loving customers here, retired and a tourist, travelling round all the fancy European countries. She wore a silk scarf tied around her neck, and her emerald glasses matched the flower print of her dress. She was obviously a fine critic and someone who I’d want to get on my side, if I was ever going to move up in the world of Art.

Unfortunately, that little point didn’t make me like her anymore. She was a pain, constantly talking about her successful life and asking me questions about each painting.

“Excuse me…” I mumbled, and walked over a colleague of mine, gesturing for him to continue with the customer.

So, I walked away and towards the entrance of the building. Exhausted, I closed my eyes for a second, but found myself colliding with someone else.

“Pardon…” I said automatically, before realising that it was the man (who had called himself Tony) from the night/morning before.

“It’s you,” he said, as shocked as I was.

I almost snarled, but remembered to keep my temper in time; Tony, after all, was a customer.

“Don’t you ever lay off?” I gabbled quickly in straight French.

“Pardon?” He blinked dumbly at me for a couple of seconds.

“Will you stop following me!” I said slowly, and in English this time.

“I’m not!” He frowned, “I’m site-seeing. It doesn’t help that you happen to be in the same place as me!”

“Whatever you say…” I mumbled, starting to turn away, “Enjoy the gallery…”

And so, I gestured all around

“Hey…I’m sorry. What have I done wrong?” Tony side-stepped and I found that he was blocking my escape path.

“It’s not… I mean… You-”

But, I stopped mid-sentence, as my gaze caught sight of the front glass double doors with all the art fanatics or creative tourists pouring slowly in. I watched as the men, women and children became slow-motion characters; my eyes were centred on one of them, and one only.

“Oh, zut alors! Quick, hide me!”

“What? Why?”

Because the man I had least wanted to see there had just walked through the front door. He was the cute and handsome Johnathon Carter, also known as the lover who rejected me.

The End

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