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She lifts a hand and sets it on my forearm, giving a light squeeze. “I’ll do my best to let it go.”
A strand of her hair catches the wind and grazes her cheek. And god, do I want to tuck it back into place. Brush my knuckles over the apple of her cheek and reassure her. Tell her everything will be alright.
But I leave my hand at my side. Refrain from speaking such reassurances. Don’t move an inch. Because friends don’t touch each other that way. Not the way I want to touch her.
“Good,” I choke out, then clear my throat. “Shall we?” I offer her my elbow and smooth out my expression. Act as if we didn’t just share emotional intimacy.
She loops her arm with mine and straightens her spine. “We shall.”
We walk two more blocks, our steps leisurely as we take in the city. Most of Downtown St. Petersburg is plastered in art. Paintings by local artists on the sides of buildings. Sculptures in front of local businesses. Even some of the older structures are art without effort.
Soon, I steer us toward the Morean Arts Center, where the local Chihuly Collection is on display. Although sculpture and glasswork are not my specialty, I appreciate the love and labor and artists who construct such astounding masterpieces.
“Oh, wow.” An air of awe occupies Shelly’s expression. “I haven’t been here, but I’ve heard wonderful reviews about the exhibit.”
“Well, then I’m glad we came.”
Gone is her morose mood from the restaurant. Now delight and anticipation set her aura on fire. Excitement and a hint of passion. The shift soothes something deep inside. Something I won’t question or spend time trying to figure out. Not now.
After we go through check-in, a curator in the museum explains the rules while inside. As with most museums, there is no touching. Unlike most museums, you have permission to take photos.
Without hurry, we go through each room. Read the placards and learn about Dale Chihuly and his glasswork. Stare at the blown glass that defies logic or gravity. His pieces are pure imagination brought into existence. His gift to the human eye. Globes in various sizes. Bowls resembling ocean waves. Spirals and pillars and tentacles.
With each room we enter, each new piece we see, I study not only the displays but also Shelly. Really study her. How she reads about each display thoroughly. How she steps back and looks at the display from afar. Then steps closer and takes in the intricate details. The fine lines and layers of color woven into each piece. The unprecedented design and craftsmanship.
She sees each piece as more than justprettyorneat. She finds inspiration in the work. Looks at it from one angle then another. I would swear shefeelsthe art. Immerses herself in the mind of the man who created each piece and display.
When we walk beneath thePersian Ceiling,I swallow past the dryness in my throat. Breathe deep and work to calm the ever-expanding organ beneath my sternum. The one that shouldnotbe beating so profusely. Yet, I can’t stop what happens naturally.
Not when it comes to Shelly.
Under the lights and strategically placed glass pieces in thePersian Ceilingis a rainbow of color. The space is a sea of stained glass and wonder. The sight of Shelly beneath the art, reds and blues and yellows splashing her cheekbones and neck and jaw, stuns me. Renders me speechless. Bonds me to the floor where I stand. Robs me of breath and reason and practicality.
And I do nothing to stop or fast forward the moment. I can’t. Not when I see her like this. Not when it makes me eager to dip a brush in pigment and paint her in this new light. A spectrum in a world of gray. A myth brought into existence.
“I found one,” she whisper-shouts.
I snap out of my Shelly-induced stupor and step closer to her. “Found what?” With my fantasizing, I have no idea what it is we are looking for.
“A cherub.”
Ah, yes. Chihuly and his affinity for the childlike angel. “That you did.”
While Shelly scans the ceiling to locate more, I remain a step back and watch her. Watch her fascination, her excitement, her eagerness to find the next special piece in the art. I don’t need to search for cherubs. My eyes on her is all I need in this magical place.
Once we leave thePersian Ceiling, the rest of the museum tour speeds by. Wraps up far quicker than I would like. In the gift shop, we each buy a small token to remember the museum and our visit. Not that I need a token to remind me of today, or any day with Shelly.
We step out into the warm November air and pause. After getting swept up in the whimsical world of Chihuly, we both need a minute to reset ourselves. Find our footing back in the real world.
A voice in my head tells me to ask Shelly to dinner later. Well, only a couple hours from now. The words are on the tip of my tongue. Ready to spill out and be heard by someone other than myself.
As I open my mouth to ask, another voice speaks up. Reminds me of the last time I gave too much of myself to another. Reminds me of the heartache and pain and dark, dark days that followed when she ripped me apart. When she left me to waste away. When she abandoned me without care.
And the fear from that singular moment is why I bite my tongue. Why I seal my lips and close off my heart. Because if I ever let anyone that close again, if I allow myself to be truly vulnerable, it sets me up for loss. For anguish. For the darkness.
I can’t go back to the darkness. Not again. Never again. Who would pull me out?
“Ready to head back?” I mutter. This time, I don’t offer my arm. Don’t add pep to my voice. Don’t glance in her direction.
