I tugged nervously on the hem of the expensive new dress, the lady at the boutique had said, “Fit me like a glove and accentuated my best features,” and entered the room filled to overflowing with rich and glamorous art enthusiasts.
The product of a small no-nothing town, I was new to the big city with its whirlwind of activity, lights, and glitz; but I shoved my own insecurities aside when the company handed me the invitation; this was my new beginning.
Conscious of a few heads turning as I strolled through the gallery, I clutched the small evening bag tighter in an effort to still the niggling edge of doubt and began to wonder if the sexy, new dress with its draping backline had been a mistake.
I did not hear him approach as I stood staring at the painting with is vibrant mishmash of colors, swirls, zigzags and bleeding crimson black, just the whisper of his words carried on the soft scent of his cologne, “The most beautiful work of art in the place,” he said.
I turned to see who, in their right mind, would call this painting beautiful, but the intensity of his gaze robbed me of my voice as he lifted my hand from the clutched bag bringing it to his lips, “I was speaking of you,” he said.