Ace of Wands

Back In School—DAY

I am unhappy with the way my works have been presented. They have practically shredded all my panels. Each a small part of a larger epic triptych, consisting of a black and white photograph collage with magazine ads, newspaper print and other larger “found” pieces of electrical wiring, doilies and the like.

The catalog for the exhibit, sponsored by Pepsi Cola (of all things) is a huge tome, though, my work still takes up several pages in the badly laid out book. Though I think no one will ever consider my work to have merit under these conditions.

My parents who have flown out for the show are exceedingly proud. They didn’t understand my work anyhow and cannot realize how it has been butchered in its presentation. Besides, just to be chosen is an honor; especially considering no one had given any merit to my photography or collage previously.

As I shut the catalog with a heavy thud, my eyes catch sight of a voluptuous brunette girl passing by. Our eyes meet. I do not know what to say for it is Andrea, my old and disturbed college girlfriend. So, as I frown, she beams and takes my hands with a quick wink.

“Bonjour. Comment avez-vous été?” And then takes back off across campus.

“Wait!” I call after and chase her out of the hangar-like building and into the quad, “What’s going on? Where are you going?” I catch up to her and try to take her right hand to slow her down.

She sees this and crosses to the other side of the sidewalk, “Zut! No! Stop your tricks. We shouldn’t do that.”

I see she means that we shouldn’t hold hands, but now that she is on my other side I take her, surprised, by the unaccustomed left hand. “Andrea, we were holding hands from the moment we met. Now, slow down and talk to me. What’s going on?”

She stops to face me, “Alors. What’s going on is that the gallery is going to show my work.”

“That’s great, Andrea,” I hadn’t even known she had become an artist, “I’m showing here, too, I mean, I’m so proud of you!”

At this I put my arms around her, and her eyes flash with all the fire they used to look at me with back in her cluttered little dorm room.

“And I’m proud of you too,” she blushes. And then as if no time had passed she reaches for me and we kiss, as passionately and uncontrollably as back then, when we were practically kids. Her solid frame crushes me to the ground like it always did.

I do not give a damn what the on-lookers though of we two artists rolling about in the grass like mad.