Over the years, visiting museums had become more than a source of mere amusement for him. If anything at all, dropping into museums, exhibits, and even smaller galleries had become something of a staple in his life.<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.imgur.com%2F1p7t8qy.jpg&amp;hash=3f5db6f49f8b898d85e8155336f90321" href="https://i.imgur.com/1p7t8qy.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Mikkel Ostergaard</a>had many interests with which to occupy his time - music, sailing, his occupation as a surgeon - but there existed no greater love in his life than that of the visual arts. As a youth, he had learned of the resonance carried by appearances, the importance of aesthetics in a world that so often forgot to stop and appreciate beauty. In every corner of the planet, there lived men content to forgo the beautiful for the convenient; trading forests for condominiums and clear water for pipelines. Mikkel, for his part, sought beauty wherever he could find it.<br/><br/>That night, he found it in the arts district in Portland. In a smaller modern art museum situated at the end of a cobblestone road, the structure illuminated with the warm glow of tapered street lights, still damp with the evening rain. Mikkel was no stranger to the Hodder Museum of Modern Art. Indeed, he was a familiar enough figure that upon walking in, the pretty young thing at the coat check greeted him by name, no doubt angling for a heftier tip when he collected his things at the end of the night. The surgeon had always found her attractive enough at the first glance, with her cherry red lips and long flaxen hair, if also a touch vapid. That didn't stop him from flashing her a charming smile when he passed his coat over the counter, but it had a few months prior stopped him from accepting a small Post-It with her number scribbled over the neon pink surface. Pretty never outweighed vapid.<br/><br/>With the admission fee waived due to his regular contributions, Mikkel wandered into the museum on his own that evening, his cell phone muted and his thoughts trained on simply basking in the quiet, almost somber ambience of the halls. A new, temporary exhibit had opened in the back half of the building, housing a fresh collection fresh from the paintbrushes of one Gloria Wilcox, a modestly talented young artist with a flair for the dramatic. For as long as Mikkel had known her, she had remained constant with only two things in her life: bold color schemes and an unapologetic refusal to paint inside the lines. For a time, Mikkel had found her quite delightful, even whisking her off for an impromptu trip to Italy. They had spent roughly half of their time in museums, the other half in their shared hotel suite, during which time the surgeon had discovered that he appreciated her company more than he appreciated her work.<br/><br/>As that particular evening marked the launch of Gloria's new collection, Mikkel had no doubt that if he wandered into that particular wing of the museum, he would be greeted with waves of both the artistically inclined and self-proclaimed - often disingenuous - connoisseurs in equal measure. By that point, he had developed a foolproof method for determining one from the other. Genuine enthusiasts often wandered about on their own, taking in this and that at their leisure. The rest gathered in small cliques, phones in hand, prattling on about the real estate market and yachts. Out of all the times Mikkel had wandered into museums, not once had he come to talk about yachting. Even before his sabbatical, he had always budgeted ample time for indulging in art and beauty. But now, with his practice in temporarily behind him and nothing but time on his hands, he had completely immersed himself in creativity. Sometimes his own, often that of others. It was but one of his many passions, one that he nurtured with all the enthusiasm of a loving father.<br/><br/>That night, wandering about on his own, Mikkel made his way from a cluster of sculptures, his tall, lean frame leisurely weaving between various podiums housing some of the smaller works. An eastern-facing wall boasted a smattering of particularly unique pieces, and he was keen to take a look before any of the self-made men with a Bluetooth headset permanently glued to his ear recognized him, zeroed in, and dragged him aside to talk about investment opportunities. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen this particular group of paintings before. They had, in fact, become one of the reasons why he returned with such frequency. The pieces in question differed greatly from many of the museum's other fare, delighting in a unique portrayal of the raw, the visceral, and the macabre. The collection tended not to draw a large crowd to begin with, which was appealing on its own, on top of which Mikkel had a particularly unique aesthetic, one that in stark contrast to his polished, distinguished exterior often leaned toward the dark and dreary.<br/><br/>Due to the relative unpopularity of the collection, Mikkel had fully expected to be the only one seeking it out. Yet as he passed to the other side of the room, politely excusing himself as he wove around a patron or two, he spotted a figure standing before<i><a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2F736x%2F4c%2F07%2Fd6%2F4c07d65d7149a05fea7099517f8bc680--bizarre-art-circus-art.jpg&amp;hash=1546ba50b880f6fcafe088af4f7f9d10" href="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/4c/07/d6/4c07d65d7149a05fea7099517f8bc680--bizarre-art-circus-art.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Trichotomy</a></i>, perhaps his favorite among the various pieces. A passerby, he surmised, who would soon move on to observe the post-modern impressionism collection at the other side of the hall. Mikkel stood at a distance, hands clasped behind his back, steely blue eyes honing in not on the painting, but the man observing it.<br/><br/>He looked young; twenty-something if he was a day. Perhaps still a student. Dark hair that went as far as his long neck, with a frame that Mikkel could only describe as slender. As yet, Mikkel could not see his face, nor did he know if he cared to, but for a few long beats, he entertained a surge of interest at the intensity behind the young man's posture. The stranger neither fidgeted nor seemed intent on moving away, only stood stock still before the work, and he was sure then that not only was the man observing, he was dissecting. Analyzing the canvas inch by inch, layer by layer, right down to the violent flecks of crimson on an otherwise pallid color scheme. Upon wandering sidelong, intending to catch a glimpse of the younger man's features, he paused in quiet reflection at the realization that, yes, that steady gaze was devouring the piece. And Mikkel, for his part, was doing much the same.<br/><br/>At length, the surgeon meandered closer, hands slipping into the pockets of his neatly pressed grey slacks. He kept a bit of distance between himself and the stranger, a good arm's width if not more, and maintained silence for a few moments more before at last he spoke. "A curious little thing, no?" he queried, his tone dulcet and well-tempered, weighed down only slightly by the weight of a Danish accent. "Tactful in its symmetry, while at the same time forsaking it."<br/><br/>In truth, Mikkel had yet to determine the source of the sudden compulsion that drove him to engage the stranger. A bit of self-indulgence, maybe, in the face of an attractive younger man. Curiosity, perhaps, at whether he gazed upon the piece with revulsion or admiration.