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She stared at the photograph, trying hard to feel it, get the meaning, understand. Empathize. Standing alone in the exhibit room, walls covered in pictures taken by people she'd never heard of, names she'd never seen, she shifted her slight weight, though not out of a need to gain a comfortable footing. The caramel-colored hardwood floors squeaked under her feet. In the silence of the room, the odd noise seemed appropriate.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Although it was mid-July and sweltering in Virginia, the air conditioner chilled her to the bone. She'd wanted to bring a sweater, but it would have been too burdensome to carry and keep.
Taking careful steps toward a particularly striking nude bust of a woman captured in a photo, she wanted to reach out and touch it, stroke her fingers down the woman's curves and across her abdomen. How would it feel to have a hand caressing her body, touching her intimately in public? A slight tingle skipped down her spin and spread over her buttocks, raising her body temperature higher.
She peered over one shoulder to see if a guard stood close by, waiting to stop her plan. Her sweaty palms slid down the front of her flowered skirt. Slow, easy footfalls over the crackling floor snagged her attention.
By the time she turned her gaze toward the sound, a man stood there next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder. Not the guard, he wore a crisp, white button-up shirt and khaki pants starched to the nth degree. She wondered what corporate job he was playing hooky from to enjoy a Wednesday afternoon of art.
Then again, maybe he thought the same of her. Did he wonder why she chose to spend the afternoon in a stodgy, old museuminstead of enjoying the outdoors? Or maybe he wondered something else. Maybe he wanted to know why a man hadn't been at her side already, holding her hand or wrapping his arm around her waist like a possession. She smirked at the thought.
She took in a deep breath, capturing his heady, citrus scent. More than with the picture, she longed to run her finger through his black, slightly shaggy hair. The tiny curls gave him an almost boyish look. Almost. His large hands and broad shoulders showed that he was all man.
She licked her tongue over dry lips. He chose that moment to turn to her with a smile as wide as the Atlantic.
"Were you going to touch the photograph?" he asked.
His voice matched his towering height. It was deep as though it emanated from the soles of his feet and had an arduous journey through his sinewy body before projecting from his mouth.
"Were you going to tell if I did?" she asked, then pushed her braids off of her shoulder and chewed on her lower lip.
"Ah, a woman who answers a question by asking one." He clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered around her. "I like that," he whispered close to her ear.
She shivered as the fine hairs over her flesh stood on end. "Your wife must like it, too."
He halted his movement when he reached his destination on her other side. With his arms folded, he asked, "Why do you think I'm married?" His chocolate-colored eyes transformed into a darker shade.
"It's summer. I noticed the tan line around your finger."
He left his arms in the same position, not moving them to verify her claim. "A woman who answers questions with a question, notices tan lines on ring fingers, and is alone in a museum." He shook his head. "You must be full of stories, uh..." He extended his right hand.
She thought for a while, glanced at the photograph of the nude torso and said as she shook his hand, "Emmanuelle."
He glanced at the photograph. Emmanuelle noticed his gaze dropped briefly before he returned his attention to her.
"So is that who you are today? Emmanuel Radnitsky?"
She pulled her hand away from his grasp. "No, I'm just Emmanuelle."
"Well, Just Emmanuelle, you can call me--" he paused before answering, "Helmut."
That answer got a smile from her. "Like Lang?"
He grinned, showing off his teeth. She noticed his front tooth looked slightly discolored from the rest of his gleaming white ones. Her hand reached up to touch it like she wanted to with the picture, but she refrained, reeling in her hand and crossing her arms over her chest again.
