“What is it?” He said, for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon.
“It doesn’t matter what it is…” She replied slowly, trying her best to keep her temper in check, “… It’s art. What matters is how it makes you feel or what it makes you think about?”
“Oh right…” His expression didn’t change, confusion kept his brow locked in a furrow over the blue eyes that she’d been so smitten by when they met, “… But what is it? Y’know really?” She had clearly been wrong about the eyes, they were just a mask worn by an uncultured imbecile. Admittedly he had agreed to come to the gallery with her that afternoon, he could have just gone home.
“Let’s spend the day together,” he’d said, “We can do anything you want!” Jo had been so happy to hear that, she’d lost count of the number of afternoons she’d spent desperately trying to get her last boyfriend off the sofa, it was like he didn’t have any interests or hobbies at all! Now she finally had a full day of doing the sort of interesting things that her friends did with their boyfriends with this handsome man that she’d only met a week or so before… and it was like pulling teeth. All morning he’d been sighing, dragging his feet and looking at his phone when he thought she wasn’t looking. All she wanted was a bit of interaction, what inspired him? What moved him? He was the definition of a closed book, except she’d begun to suspect that this particular book was written using single syllable words in a very large font.

“You know what?” She said, after a deep breath, “We don’t have to do this all day if you don’t want to…
“Really?” He perked up, she smiled and brushed her short blonde hair over her ear absent-mindedly,
“Yeah, let’s get going. I’ve seen the stuff I really came here for anyway.”
“Great,” he grabbed her hand and began leading her towards the exit, “You’re the best!”
Maybe it didn’t matter if he didn’t get art, she thought, they had a good time together, he made her laugh and she could always come to exhibitions with someone else. She took a half-step to match his stride and put an arm around his waist. He reciprocated by putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close,
“Seriously though… What was that?”
She sighed, definitely a large font and it was almost time to take this book back to the library.

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George Beedham

George is a comic writer/artist, taking a busman's holiday from writing about people in tights being punched in the face. Please bare with him as he tries to remember how the hell to write without pictures.

Latest posts by George Beedham (see all)

• A Gentle Reminder - 26/05/16
• Thoughts on Body Worlds - 10/05/16
• Fifteen Seconds - 29/03/16
• Barry’s Fairy Story - 18/03/16
• The Walls That We Make - 01/03/16