circular staircase

3:15 pm, the white ticket read 3:15 pm. Heart thumping in her ribcage, Bonita turned the ticket, her very own ticket, in her hand. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

“Tee shirts, tee shirts, get your World’s Most Beautiful Painting tee shirt here,” the shirt hawker shouted and waved a garish tee in Bonita’s face.

Bonita shook her head no. The hawker moved along and a pair of teens approached him to check his wares. Bonita smirked. She was going to see Lee in the Morning, “The Painting,” today not those silly girls. The Painting hung at the Heng Museum. The Heng Museum was only open three days a week from 10 am to 4 pm. The museum only allowed one visitor at a time for fifteen minutes to see its one and only work of art.

One person stood in line ahead of her. Leather motorcycle jacket and one big crazy snake earring, the artsy fartsy woman was live blogging on her phone. Philistine, Bonita thought. Bouncing slightly on her heels, Bonita cradled her ticket. Viewing art was a form of prayer to Bonita. It was not about damn likes.

Heng Museum visitors wait years for their fifteen minutes. The museum insisted on a forty page mental health questionnaire and three references from non-relatives. A comprehensive metabolic blood panel and a televisit with the museum’s doctor followed. A white gloved attendant in well tailored Alexander McQueen back suit approached and guided leather jacket into the Heng.

Bonita took a few steps. The 3:30 visitor shuffled behind her, snapping photos. The Heng Museum was a work of art in itself. An unassuming black cube of black tinted glass. That was it, no windows, no signage. Even the front door was invisible. Bonita went to check her watch but stopped herself. Instead she took measured breaths.

Bonita closed her eyes. Seven years ago, Sunny Lim, a young, rising artist painted “Lee in the Morning.” It was her last work. Forget the Mona Lisa, “Lee in the Morning” was a hit with art critics and the general public. Then there were the deaths.

“Bonita Harrington, 3:15,” the attendant said.

For a few moments, Bonita forgot her own name. Dumbly, she nodded. The attendant scanned her ticket and her retina.

“Confirmed, follow,” the attendant said.

Stumbling forward, Bonita followed the attendant on jelly legs. The Heng Museum swallowed them.

“Leave all you bring here. I will bring your belongings to you in time. Walk the path ahead. Do not touch The Painting. Your vitals will be monitored remotely but there are no cameras in the viewing area,” the attendant said as she attached adhesive electrodes to Bonita’s chest and abdomen.

Eager, Bonita started walking.

“Wait, you’re not leading me there?”

The attendant was discarding the alcohol wipes and her latex gloves.

“No. You go alone,” the attendant said without looking up.

The voice of the attendant was firm but trembled. Looking left and right, Bonita walked through the curtain. She was in a dim narrow corridor. Bonita wanted to hurry. Fifteen minutes was not enough time. But she had to walk slowly until her eyes adjusted. Another dark curtain and then Bonita saw it.

The Painting, smaller than she thought it would be, was a study of a mature woman or maybe a young man. The subject’s bare back was to the viewer but their head was turned looking directly at Bonita. Those eyes, exotic and familiar, were so needy.

Liquid light drizzled down one of the subject’s shoulders. Instinctively, Bonita reached out a hand to what caress? The smell of fresh cut grass burst across Bonita’s senses. She felt tipsy. Wait are those birds? Bonita glanced up at the swooping shadows.

Her eyes returned to The Painting. Lim had used phtalo blue on the subject’s shoulder in shadow. Bonita could taste burnt toast. The viewing area smelt of a candle being blown out. The Painting’s subject blinked. Bonita smiled and threw wide her arms. Lee, her Lee, smiled back. Lee reached out and stroked Bonita’s cheek. Yes, they had argued but now there was forgiveness. A bright pain like a hot nail being driven into her skull dropped Bonita to her knees. Her vision went cool bright blue.

Abruptly, Bonita sat up. Her nose felt crusty. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat. She was laying on a minimalist sleek bed in a tidy recovery room. A faint whiff of sweet smoke tickled her nose.

“Easy, drink all of this. Rest a while. Your Uber will be here momentarily,” another attendant said.

With compassionate eyes, this attendant was dressed identical to the first but she had a stenoscope around her neck. Bonita accepted the bottle of water. She drained it as the attendant pressed an ice bag to her nape.

“So beautiful,” Bonita mumbled. “so beautiful?”

“You’re fine now. Drink plenty of fluids. Rest. We recommend ibuprofen 350 mg, two capsules, every four hour for 24 hours,” the other attendant said as she gently guided Bonita back down.

“Your belongings are all in this sealed bag. You got quite a bit of blood on your blouse. So we changed your top. Sorry about that and we hope you enjoyed your visit to Heng Museum.”

Wearing a “I Went To See The Most Beautiful Painting In The World And All I Got Was This Lousy Tee Shirt,” Bonita leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes. Lee in the Morning was waiting just behind her eyelids.