I stood at the art exhibition, expressionless. I had been stood up again. Besides, I didn't even understand art exhibitions. If my friend didn't come, who would take my photos? What was the point of my being here?
Torn between leaving and staying, I chose to stay and started taking selfies.
Just as I snapped a photo, a woman's voice rang out, "Really, some people took selfies at an art exhibition without any literary cultivation."
I frowned, looked in the direction of the voice, and asked, "Do we know each other?"
"Not at all."
"Then why are you meddling?" I retorted.
When I had booked my ticket, I specifically asked if photography was permitted and only proceeded after receiving an affirmative answer. The pretty girl who had walked up to me scrutinized the painting I had just photographed and disdainfully said, "You don’t understand the paintings, so why come?"
She had indeed hit the nail on the head. But I wasn't flustered, "I paid for my ticket, and money makes one the boss, understand? If you know so much about literary cultivation, why are you standing here with me looking at the same painting?"
When arguing, one should never prove oneself. The girl stared, wide-eyed. "Moreover," I glanced at the painting, "It's just the silhouette of a girl running on the playground, and she looks like she's running for dear life."
The girl seemed to regain some ground, scoffing, "You really are ignorant. The structure and conception of this painting are not so superficial, okay?"
I replied, "Isn’t this just from the perspective of a secret admirer? How complex can it be?"
"What admirer? you don’t understand art at all! How could our teacher Taylor possibly be pining for someone?" she argued. A laugh erupted, cutting through the tension.
The girl and I, along with other onlookers, turned towards the source of the sound. Connor, dressed in a black coat with hands in his pockets and a reporter with a camera in tow, approached with a smile, "Secret admirers indeed. I am human, after all."
The girl's face turned red, "Is that so...?"
I opened my mouth, slightly confused, "So, teacher Taylor is you?"
Connor blinked, "I thought you came specifically for my exhibition."
I felt embarrassed, "I didn’t know this was your exhibition; my mom said you drew comics." He shrugged, "I dabble in a bit of everything."
A friend of the girl seized the moment to ask, "Teacher Taylor, what exactly does this painting mean?"
Connor studied the painting briefly, tilted his head, and looked at me, "What did you just say?"
I scoffed, "Didn’t you just laugh? Didn’t you hear?"
What petty tricks, little schemes. As a master of hipocrisy, how could I not see through your minor ploys?
He smoothly changed his stance, "Ah, right. It's about secret love, indeed. The protagonist in the painting really does seem to be running as if her life depends on it."
I nodded in agreement. It seemed not so profound after all. Wait. I looked at the girl in the painting and a bad feeling surged within me. I coughed softly and leaned close to Connor's ear, whispering, "Have you liked other girls too?"
He raised an eyebrow, "Are you jealous?"
I replied, "Not really."
"No," he said.
I realized belatedly, looked at him, then back at the painting.
I took a deep breath, "You’re the one running as if your life depends on it." The girls gradually caught on, "Teacher Taylor, is she the girl you like?" The girl that innitially argue with me pointed at me.
Connor, eyes curving into a smile, said, "It is an honor to have the protagonist of this painting critique it; This gives it a different meaning."
He had admitted it.
I covered my face, "Can you not be so pretentious?" Connor turned to me innocently, "Well then, Miss Foster, may I have the honor of buying you a coffee?"
