Page 15 of Exposed

The elevator door closes.

“God fucking damn it!” I hear you shout this louder than I’ve ever heard you speak before.

I am cognizant of nothing but my own gasping, ragged breath as I cross the lobby, and I know I’m sobbing, but I don’t care.

For once, the noise of Manhattan does not paralyze me.

In four-inch Gucci heels, I run.

In a custom couture gown, I flee.

There is only one place in this city that I know, and somehow I find it.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I have no money for the admission fee. But when I arrive at the ticket counter, there is a little old black woman behind the desk.

She recognizes me. “Oh, it’s you! I haven’t seen you in... oh, years!”

“Hi...” I don’t know her name. But I know her, it feels like. “It has been a long time.”

“Where’s Mr. Indigo?”

“I . . . I came without him.”

A look crosses her face. “Oh.” She tilts her head sideways. “Honey, you all right?”

I shake my head, unable to summon a lie. “No. No. I need... I need to go in, but I forgot money. I don’t have any money. And I need—Ineedto go in.”

“It’s pay what you want here,” she says. “Even if you got a dollar I can let you in.”

“I have nothing. Not a penny.”

A moment of hesitation. Then she reaches into her back pocket, withdraws some crumpled green bills, stuffs two into her register drawer, and hands me a ticket. “On me today, sweetie. You used to love this place. You was here all the time, back then. Every day.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She waves her hand. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“You don’t know what this means to me.”

Neither do I, I don’t think. But I go in, and discover that I know the way. My feet carry me to the painting.

There is a bench, low lighting. White walls. My painting is not prominently displayed, just one of many, and not an important one. I take a seat on the bench, ankles crossed beneath me.

I stare at her.

Portrait of Madame X.

She possesses such poise, such effortless strength. The curve of her neck, the strength in her arm, the calm expression on her face.

I stare for a long, long time. Find calm in the painting, finding some measure of strength.

There is one more to see. I wander the halls, and somehow cannot find it.

There is a guard, tall, black skin so dark it glistens. “Excuse me, sir,” I ask. “Where is theStarry Night?”

I receive a blank stare. A shrug.