The guide ushers us through rooms with a sweeping arm movement. You see a windmill. She points to a Rembrandt and a Picasso as though they are the same. Her crimson lipstick has left its mark on her upper tooth, reminds you of a girl you used to take salsa classes with, until she vanished.
Tourists behind are snapping pictures, pressing you forwards, reminds you of a Rolling Stones concert.
“No flash,” she says. “Stop.”
Her words pull away like birds vanishing into the eye of a storm. There is a final snap of a shutter release and she growls like a dog: lips curled at the edges, eyes fixed to the floor.
“And we have our final room, the Cubists.”
She says the word, Cubists, as though the best has been saved for last, as though she is about to produce a vintage port, but you know it is not the highlight. The highlight was the entree: Da Vinci’s Last Supper…. Read more on Medium