​

She wished he stared at her the way he stared at flint. Fascinated. Reading the description card closely, not wanting to miss a word. Intent on learning everything he can about that precise piece of flint. That’s everything until it no longer interests him, and he glances slightly to the left, moving to the next piece. A glass cabinet full of the stuff, arms open wide, all desperate to grab his attention. To have their story told and be understood by this stranger.

​

When they’d first met, he was fascinated in her. Then, after learning all he could, he’d somehow made her feel like that first piece of flint, not worth a second look.

                                                                                                             *

​

He was listening to the audio guide. She held hers down by her side like a piece of fruit she had no intention of eating. It had been his idea to visit the museum. He told her he was going and she’d smiled, showing she’d come along. Sure, if you’re interested, is what he’d replied, looking under the bed for his shoes. Of course, she wasn’t interested; and they knew that.

​

He once said to her that she wasn't interested in anything other than herself. He’d said this as a throwaway comment, spoken just before a film started. She’d sat beside him in the dark cinema, mute. Suddenly aware they had reached the next stage of their relationship; he could see through her. Throughout the film he’d laughed and laughed, slurped and burped, continually feeding his body with comfort. She never did respond to his comment, even when they picked up their coats and sat on the 108 home. Not because she had nothing to say but because she felt people spoke too much. She preferred to sit and feel. As a result, his friends viewed her a snob. She viewed them as lacking emotion, dying to be understood when they didn’t understand themselves.

​

She was an artist. An abstract oil painter who created the kind of art that evoked one response: Ha, I could do that. Until someone of note deemed her a success, it would remain true. But up to this point he’d never thought that. The first time he’d stood on those paint covered dust sheets in her studio he felt something he mistook for love. Love for this woman who wasn’t interested in anyone or anything, only what was going on in her own head so she could create it. She’d fully throw herself into her projects with the passion he lacked. And that was cool, because it made him cool. Like wearing a pair of quirky glasses frames, she made him appear to be someone of interest. And he’d use that. He’d leave the house with paint purposefully positioned on his hands so people would ask. Yeah, my artist girlfriend.  

​

But slowly he was seeing through her. In his words, she needed to get over herself. Now at the museum they were standing at opposite ends of a glass cabinet looking down at a rock. She mimicked his actions, staring intently at it, trying. She opened her mouth to make a comment, trying again, but something stopped her. As if sensing her efforts, he walked off. She pretended not to notice, forcing her eyes to remain fixed on the rock a little longer. He was aware of what he’d done. Delivered a quick twinge to her emotions. In a weeks’ time he’d see it exaggerated into one of her pieces.

​

He was no longer fascinated with her. Now, before leaving the house he’d wash his hands and tell her to do the same. She’d noticed his withdrawal but didn’t react, silently preserving the heartache to transfer to the canvas.

​

The end.