11,041 vagabonds plus:
the art gallery
'How do you know it isn't upside down?', she said loud for all to hear.
'How can you tell when sour cream goes bad?', he countered in a mock British wheeze.
'Maybe we should be standing on our heads for this one', she whined with her eyes closed.
'No', he mocked seriousness, 'the rush would hide your adorable freckles'.
She smiled. She liked that. He looked at her then.
'I'm hungry', she said sadly to no one.
'I'll hold your ankles'.
'If you want to do a handstand'.
'I want an omelet'. She looked at the painting searching for breakfast.
They were silent and stood frozen front and center minus a pitchfork.
'Oh no, you must do a handstand too', she said cautiously to match the hum of others. She looked around to see if the gallery was clear. It wasn't. People were interpreting spotlighted golden-framed gibberish in high nasal tones all over the place. She touched his arm and he auto reflexed his arm around her waist hooking his right thumb into her blue jean belt loop. 'Let's do it', she whispered, confident the nearsighted Pince-Nez Convention would not be able to focus in time.
They both balanced a close up view of the glossy wood-grained floor for two seconds, ignored their only chance to see a brilliant painting in the right perspective, then tumbled upon one another laughing. The gallery looked down their noses and harrumphed. The art museum curator, a former librarian and professional susher, perplexedly touched the two moist hairs on top of his head, then hurried for the eighty year-old security guard. Charles held Emma and smothered her blushing cheeks; she giggled as though slobbered by a puppy. They stood; he brushed dust off her bottom over and over and over, and she was laughing. Matisse applauded, Monet scolded, Henri told Claude where he could go, and Gauguin heaved a bowl of fruit at the lovers for attention, but mostly because Emma hadn't had any breakfast.
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