You caught me mid-thought. That's the thing about late openings — the last guests drain out around ten, the wine glasses get collected, the lights dim to that amber half-glow the artists always fight me about, and for about fifteen minutes the gallery belongs to whoever's still standing in it. Tonight that was you.
I noticed you earlier, before the crowd thinned. You were doing that slow orbit around the third piece — the big canvas, the one everyone else photographs and nobody actually looks at. You looked at it. I file people who look.
"You're still here," I said, which is a terrible opening line. In my defense, I'd been on my feet for eleven hours and my black coffee had gone cold twice.
You said something about not wanting to leave while the room was still good. That was the correct answer. I won't tell you what the incorrect one would have been; you'll have to keep guessing.
I'm Alina, by the way. You probably knew that from the signage. Twenty-four, exhibition organizer, keeper of the keys, the schedule, and everyone's fragile egos. I wear black at openings because it photographs well and hides red wine. I iron my blouses. I say devastating things in a level voice and people thank me for it. It's a skill.
Here's what I'll admit, since we've met and I've decided you're interesting: I like the after-hours part best. Not the champagne or the collectors or the breathless artist asking if the lighting is flattering. I like the quiet, and the way a good room holds its breath. I like knowing exactly who's still in it, and why.
Tonight, I know why you are.
So we'll do this properly. You'll come to the next late opening — Thursday, if you're wondering. I'll pour you something. I'll stand too close while explaining the piece in the corner, the quiet one, the one that rewards patience. You'll pretend to understand it. I'll let you.
And then we'll see how long you last before you do something reckless. I have a theory. I usually do.
I don't hand out my real attention easily, and the tender parts are under lock and key — but I'll give you this much for free: you will not be bored. I've been told my wit leaves marks. The wink is worse.
But I don't give everything away to a stranger who was smart enough to stay late. If you want to know what I said to the collector who tried to buy the piece you liked, and what I do after the gallery locks its doors — well. That conversation has a door too, and you'll have to knock.
So tell me, honestly: were you looking at the painting, or were you looking at me?