night gallery

You.
You there.
To the left. Here.

Yes. Wait. No sense summoning the museum director. I will have turned my back once more before you return.

I am speaking to you. The fork was midway to my mouth when I felt you. But you already knew that. Who in their right mind paints a man shoveling slop to his pie hole? Ah, it's my claim for all eternity. My manners! Let me introduce myself.

I am François, your faithful servant.

I felt the brush of your delicate finger upon my elbow. Perhaps you doubted the four hundred year-old paint was not dry? Ah, better, a smile, yes. Such fine teeth!
You were deep in thought, a true connoisseur like my father, and his father before him, looking for minute significance of the brush of an eccentric to canvas. Let me assist you.

Our guest, Maurice here, is fascinated by, well, I believe you twenty-first centurions call it a kaleidoscope. Maurice, an intellectual scholar unable to tunnel his way out of a hessian sack, terms it, 'oh, look at the fancy colored light!'

That's my beautiful and precious sister, Tessy, opposite. She weeps over me daily. I admit - I wasn't going to talk to you but she kicked me when she saw you first. A beautiful girl. And let me introduce you to my hopeless brother-in-law, Conrad, a village idiot tactless enough to bring a lute to the supper table. Wouldn't be so bad if he played in the key that Angels sing, but, lo, or hark, as we say, he plucks away in the vicinity of the key of G. Probably for gravy. A cold gravy waltz. I just thought of that. Pretty swift, heh? My poor sister. He plays the French Horn in bed. Idiot.

Yes. I suppose it is time. Back to my fork. So tiresome even though dessert has finally arrived. You, a true connoisseur. Move along now.