Museum

The man in the blue shirt gazes at the art through his wire rimmed glasses. His arms behind his back, phone in hands, he moves from picture to picture as if critiquing. He looks at the pictures, but seems disconnected, checking his phone between glimpses. His mind is elsewhere. He stands closely to the framed images, letting his breath hit the glass as he exhales. He is alone and perhaps he prefers it this way.

He checks his phone again, shaking his head and finally putting the phone into his pocket. The text is from his wife. Or is she even his wife anymore? Wouldn't filing for a divorce perhaps void his right to call her his wife now? Maybe it's just a habit. Five years of marriage and he's still surprised at how short lived a marriage could be. He wonders if it even counts. He can still reminisce over the first day he met his wife... ex-wife?

It was in a museum much like this one. Andy Warhol's work was being displayed and to her amusement, he was not interested in the pop art style. He would stare at the collection of colors with distaste, not understanding the point of it all. It proceeded to be a great night for her but an embarrassing night for him and maybe that should've been a sign that they weren't meant to be.

His phone begins to ring frivolously in his pocket. Buzzing so frequently that passers by began to stare. The man, sheepish, hurries out of the museum, his phone still vibrating.

Sweating profusely, he answers the phone when he gets in the hallway.

"What Emily? What? What could you possibly want right now," he harshly whispers through gritted teeth, bent over by a wall. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and stands up straight. He tries to forget how foolish he must look right now.

"Hello to you as well," Emily hesitates, her voice sounding like a calming melody in the man's ear. "How are you?"

He taps his foot on the hardwood floor, getting more and more impatient by the second.

"Busy. What do you want?" He says.

"I feel as though we are falling short of something," she exclaims.

"What?"

"I feel as though we are fall-"

"No I heard you," he says "What do you think we are falling short of ?"

"OH! Oh yes of course! I feel as though we are falling short communication wise. You see... I was really thinking yesterday. I was deep in thought. And I came to the conclusion that I went about this marriage all wrong. All along I had not been being honest with myself and with my needs and wants and that inevitably led to our divorce in progress."

"No. You fucking Joseph led to our divorce in progress," he says through clenched teeth and hurried breaths.

"What even is monogamy, though ? I mean... seriously, darling. Humans were not made to stay in these boxed relationship archetypes."

"Did you learn that from Joseph?"

"As a matter of fact-"

"It was sarcasm not an actual question that needed to be answered. Emily," he sighs, "what really do you want?"

There is a long deafening pause. If you listened closely you could practically hear the anticipation. His heart beat. Emily's breaths. The sweat continuing to cascade down his face. Her, tucking her hair behind her ear. Finally she breaks the silence.

"I miss you," she whispers. He hangs up. He stares at the barren phone screen. He waits 30 seconds to see if she'll call back. She doesn't call back. He breathes. The sweating has stopped. Smiling, he sashays back into the museum, taking in the scenery once more.