text: Altered Trajectories By Andy Pearson © 2024 “Brush strokes - drone drone drone” “Shifted Perspective -buzz buzz buzz” “Focal point rendering - hum hum hum” The drone from Charley Brown’s teacher filled my head as I followed along with the group. Taking a museum tour of the art of the Impressionist period was not my idea. For me, art can be a diamond on a cloudless blue day. A diamond trimmed to perfection with the infield lines crisp against the grass of the outfield and laser straight untrampled white chalk lines. Baseball. A game of patience and grace played on a pool table smooth, painfully manicured lawn was the essence of summertime art. Inside the museum, the air conditioning dampened voices droning about contrasting shades of ochre in an oil skyline. Outside voices were calling for hotdogs and beer mingled with various interrogatives regarding eyesight and lineage. Inside was the click of heels on polished tile floors and round-topped brass stanchions holding red velvet ropes in graceful arcs. Outside was harsh sunlight slamming into pale skin, long hidden by winter, unaccustomed to the onslaught. Inside the museum was dim light from hidden sources. My body was inside while my thoughts were being sunburned outside. I shook my head and tried to focus on the lecture being delivered. “As you can see in this piece, Impression Sunrise by Monet. The openness and the qualities of the light shown in the light strokes highlight the ordinariness of the scene and bring it to life in a way that a more realistic form might lose, “ the tan-jacketed docent said as the group stopped in front of a blueish painting of a harbor with a small red sun hanging drearily in the middle. The group murmured small agreements as I hung in the back of the crowd. I looked at the tri-fold itinerary. This was painting seven of twenty-five that we would gather at. Twenty-five paintings to talk about color and composition. Looking at my watch, and doing some quick math, I figured ten minutes a painting multiplied by eighteen paintings would mean enough minutes to miss all of the Dodgers game. Oh well, there were highlight reels and tomorrow would be another game. Today, I was at the museum learning about art because Stephanie liked art and I thought Stephanie was art. Stephanie stood at the front of the group. She was always at the front of any group. She wore a grey wool pencil skirt, a knitted red and white striped top, a red scarf, and a matching beret like a character from a Cary Grant movie. A beret at an art museum. I thought it was pretentious. She insisted. I admit Stephanie makes pretentious look good. She had her small notebook and pen out taking notes as if this visit was for a college class. The group moved away from the Monet piece in a cluster, like migrating amoeba. We faithfully followed Tan Jacket to a painting of ballerinas. I thought this one was pretty good. The four dancers were in blue and while their faces were just suggested, they appeared to be in movement. “The paintings by Degas relating to dancing are famous and infamous. The color and emotion of the brushstrokes pull the viewer into the scenes making them some of the masterworks of the impressionistic period. Some say the paintings hint at a darker side of Parisian society. We will not focus on those ideas, but rather on the composition itself and the work of the painter, “ Tan Jacket said and I drifted further from the conversation. Skimming the paintings on the other walls, I circled the room. I found a small bench under a sign pointing to the exit and the bathrooms. I eased onto the bench and looked at Stephanie. She was enthralled by the lecture. A man in a black jacket and a dark scarf around his neck looked to be enthralled with her as they held a whispered conversation about the painting. I leaned back against the wall and struck my head on a fire extinguisher hanging behind the bench. Rubbing my head, I wondered why I’d said yes to this trip. Stephanie wanted someone to go with her, and I was available. Since arriving at the museum, I’d faded into the background. Still rubbing the sore spot, I stared at her. I knew why I was there. She was amazing. In a museum, she was beautiful enough to be an exhibit. Smooth olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Her clothes fit in a way that suggested... well that was suggestive. She has a way of turning her head to look at me, that stops all rational thought. That’s another reason I’m here at the museum instead of the game. Watching her from my seat at the fire extinguisher, I could see that she and the man in the scarf were engaged in some sort of discussion. I watched as she pushed her hair back and turned her head slightly to laugh. I’d seen this a thousand times, and each time the movement slowed my heart. From my perch, I could see it had the same effect on Black Jacket. I leaned my head back and again felt the fire extinguisher crease my scalp. How many times was I going to subject myself to this? I knew that once the trip to the museum was over, I was going be relegated to my normal place in the friend zone. The friend zone. It’s in the dictionary now. Friend Zone - A situation in which a friendship exists between two people, one of whom has an unreciprocated romantic or sexual interest in the other. I knew which one of us was which in that definition. We’d known each other for two years. I spend my time trying to determine speeds and vectors to allow rockets to escape Earth’s grasp. Seriously, I help make rockets, big rockets. Stephanie spends her time on budgets and finances so we can make the big rockets that escape the atmosphere. We met at the ubiquitous business gatherings where we talked about vision and mission and ate tough prime rib. From that moment, I was in her orbit. We found we enjoyed each other’s company even if we didn’t both appreciate the same art. The baseball game. Dodgers vs A’s. Stephanie enjoyed the game. Yelling, cheering, eating hot dogs, and drinking a beer. She hugged me when Freddie Freeman hit a home run. The feeling of her arms around me lasted two more innings. Maybe I would have taken the feeling home, but then the kiss cam found us and we appeared on the large screen. My heart skipped a beat as the crowd around us cheered for the kiss. The chaste peck on the cheek said everything to everyone, me included She found me safe. I was trustworthy. I was dependable. I was all of that and then some. I was also not date-worthy. I didn’t know why. This had been expressed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. But still, instead of sweating in the bleacher seats with a hot dog and a scorecard, I was sitting in the friend zone in an air-conditioned museum. I knew when we left the museum, I’d remain in the trustworthy section of life, and my problem was, I’d do it again tomorrow. I refocused on the group and saw Stephanie move closer to examine the Degas ballerinas. I saw just her profile. The grey skirt clung tightly to her waist. The red beret at an angle on her head with her dark hair curling on her neck in a braid. She was peering closely and her mouth was light with the pleasure of the moment. The missed ball game was forgotten, and instead of a batting order, a line from the Tempest came to mind, I would not wish any companion in the world but you. I’m not just a baseball fan. I watched her look closely at the pastel blue dancers on the wall as if she wanted to understand all Degas wanted to communicate at that moment. I realized I loved this part of her too. The part of her that could be submerged fully in a moment. Leaning back on the wall, this time careful of the red menace behind me, I watched her take notes and write thoughts in her notebooks. She always had a notebook. A place to write lists and details that needed follow-up. I knew she also wrote thoughts, dreams, and ideas. She’d read snippets of it to me when we bumped into each other at lunch. She started telling me about her writing when she learned I liked to read. I didn’t always understand her meanings, but her passion was undeniable. I continued my study of her, and in my reverie, I didn’t notice that she’d turned in my direction. When she cocked her head at me and smiled, my spell broke and I grinned sheepishly. The crowd began moving to another room with Tan Jacket walking backwards holding forth on the next artist to be visited. Stephanie stood still. The group flowed around her. Black Jacket stopped for a moment to see if she was accompanying the group, but she didn’t respond to him. He shook his head in disappointment and joined the others. She continued to examine me from across the gallery with her head leaning to the side. She moved across the tile floor. Her soft flats made no noise as she glided in my direction. “I saw you sitting here.., “ she said still watching me. “Well, I was just taking a break,” I said starting to push myself up. “and I wondered how long you’d been here,” she finished her sentence. “Just a few minutes,” I said looking up at her brown eyes and pausing in my rise. I settled back to the bench. “Not just now. How long have you been here?” she whispered. “Uh well, “I mumbled. “You were looking at me,” she said. “Well, I was looking that way,” I stuttered trying to save face. “From here, the painting takes on new, uh, new, uh, dimensions. The colors are more distinct.” “You were looking at me,” she repeated. I felt my face flush and realized that we were the only ones left in the gallery. No Tan Jacket. No Black Jacket. No amoeba cluster. Just two people surrounded by paintings, all of whom seemed to be watching me from their canvas. Waiting. “Yes. I was,” I said quietly. “You know, I get that a lot. I’m not unaware that I’m ... pretty” she said shaking her head slightly. “You’re beautiful,” I blurted and stopped. “Shhh. I’ve been looked at, leered at, and even ogled most of my life. I don’t choose to be and most of the time I don’t even notice. But you were looking at me differently,” she said quietly. “Uhh Well...,” I said with a blush turning to heat in my face. “You were looking at me as though I were the only thing beautiful in the room. The only thing beautiful in this room,” she said sweeping her arm around the gallery of watching oil eyes. I looked around the room. Sconces dotted the walls illuminating various pieces of precious art. Each piece illuminated by its own semi-circle of light. The rest of the room was lit by dim indirect light hidden in the ceiling. There were no shadows, but also no bright spots except the paintings. “Not just an object of art, or beauty, I’ve seen that look and some other baser thoughts on people’s faces, but yours was-interest. I realized you’ve looked at me that way previously, haven’t you? And I’ve missed it haven’t I” she said. I didn’t know how to answer this. Do I admit my feelings, again? I thought back to the one time I’d asked Stephanie on a real date. She’d been graceful with me, but clear. I was not someone she was interested in. Not interested in that way is what she’d said. She treasured our friendship. I remembered hearing those words as some of the harshest ever spoke to me. Now though, I thought of Cyrano’s final line before his death, ...I’ll still have one thing intact, without a stain, something I’ll take with me in spite of you.. my white plume. See, I told you I’m not just a mathematician - baseball fan. Cyrano died with his pride intact but his love unanswered. I could do the same safe thing. But no. I would die with love answered and my plume soiled if need be. “I have been here. I have been here surrounded by art while watching a masterpiece, “ I said moving my arm around the room. ” I have been here watching. And loving.” “Yes..” she said now at a loss. “You have been here.” “And I will stay here in this orbit, continually being pulled toward a spot, but always missing. Circling until and unless acted upon and then my course can alter.” “Always the engineer and the poet, “ she said with a smile and shake of her head. “Always in orbit,” I replied. “Unless acted upon,” she said looking down at me. “How much does it take to influence an orbit?” “Next to nothing. But the greater the act, the greater the effect.” She smiled and reached for my hand. With a slight pull, my orbit altered. She looked up at me and continued to study me intently. She nodded and said,” You’ve been here the whole time.” And then with a slight rise, she kissed me. She kissed me and my orbit changed. I kissed her back and her orbit altered also.