Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,40

in, there was no way out. But they’d made it safely to the museum, and ever since, he’s been counting down the minutes till they can leave and grab dinner. He’d spotted an Uno Pizzeria not too far away, a couple of bars that seemed like good options.

Jason’s hands are stuffed deep inside his jeans pockets, and the sunburn on the back of his neck is beginning to throb. Something about museums always makes him twitchy. It’s the same feeling he used to get as a young boy whenever he visited his grandmother in the nursing home. The smells aren’t comparable (thankfully no urine or disinfectant here), but the sense of being surrounded by relics from the past makes him antsy. The irony isn’t lost on him—a historian who doesn’t care for museums—but nevertheless, the place makes him feel weirdly depressed, like everyone, no matter how famous, is going to die anyway, so why bother? If he were to share this view with Gwen, though, she’d say that’s precisely why everything matters: because art survives life. But he doesn’t feel like getting into a tautological argument right now, so he keeps his mouth shut.

At the moment, she’s leading him by the hand toward a life-size bronze sculpture. “Cool, right?” she asks, and Jason offers a lackluster nod.

He thinks it looks like a couple of naked women hugging. When he reads the card, though, it says Two Fish Jumping. He laughs, shakes his head. “Sorry, I don’t see it.”

“I think you’re supposed to be open to the possibility,” she counters, “even if they don’t literally resemble fish.”

“But that’s just it. Why make a sculpture of two fish if they don’t look remotely like fish?” He doesn’t mean to be difficult. Or, maybe he does.

In another room, there’s a papier-mâché sculpture that reminds him of a bag of McDonald’s french fries, but he knows better than to say so. The label identifies it as Purse of Sorrows. His eyebrows flicker upward, but Gwen ignores him. “Moving on,” she announces without further comment.

Somewhere around the Andy Warhol paintings, Jason’s attention swerves toward two guys talking near an enormous sculpture of a dog fashioned out of metal slats. They’ve spied Gwen on the other side of the room but haven’t yet connected her with him. He watches while the taller one, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and bright blue Nike sneakers, nudges his buddy and says something under his breath. Slowly, the guy inches his way toward her. She’s studying Warhol’s painting Red Disaster when the guy makes his move.

“You like it?” he asks, and Jason watches her back stiffen. His girlfriend is distinctly attractive, and unsolicited attacks are par for the course. But Jason’s typically not within viewing distance when they happen. Usually he hears about them after the fact.

“Yeah.” She turns her back on the guy and quickly moves on to a painting of a double helix exploding. Jason leaves his corner. He can’t get to her side fast enough, but when he does, he inserts himself in the narrow space between Gwen and the other dude.

“Hey, babe.” He moves toward her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist. Now that Jason’s within striking distance, he sees the guy is younger than he’d originally assumed, probably midtwenties, with slicked-back dark hair and bright blue eyes. Jason bets his hands are soft like a baby’s.

“Hey, man, sorry. I didn’t know she was with you.” Blue Eyes’s hands are raised, palms open, apologetic.

Jason pretends to play it off. “No worries. I mean, how would you know, right?”

Blue Eyes nods, as if he’s relieved they’ve reached a gentleman’s agreement, as if Gwen is a piece of property to be bargained over.

“Jason, it’s fine,” she whispers, her hand clasping his, perhaps sensing his growing anger through the tight press of his fingers. “He was just asking about the painting.”

“Mm-huh.”

The next several seconds happen so quickly that even Jason’s not sure he could recount them precisely. But when Blue Eyes’s buddy approaches, Jason could swear he hears him whisper to his friend, “Bitch is already taken.” It’s a word that instantly triggers memories of his father shouting at his mom, and it’s as if a switch that he wasn’t even aware existed inside of him goes off.

He finds himself letting go of Gwen’s waist, taking a lunge toward Blue Eyes and swinging at his face. His fist collides with the bridge of the guy’s hooked nose, as if in slow motion, and releases a sickening, cracking sound.

“Dude!