Snafu

Wet Socks

The museum's Palazzo architecture rose above narrow streets. Cars inched past cluttered orange construction scaffolding, parks with monuments and memorial benches, and parking lots stuffed like tins of sardines. The drivers craned their necks in all directions, peering up at stoplights, throwing their hands in the air when other cars would not let them merge, and laying on the horn when they were cut off. Pedestrians waited on street corners, eyes flicking between their phones and the traffic, breath puffing in the late winter chill.

Within the walls of the museum, Cole sat on one of the long, flat benches in the center of an expansive gallery. His knees poked through tears in his jeans, frayed from wear rather than factory-induced distress. The black of his sweatshirt was faded nearly to brown from a lifetime of washing machine cycles. He had stepped into a puddle while avoiding a bike earlier, and the water that seeped through a crack in his sole dampened his left sock. He masked the discomfort of a wet sock well beneath a pensive expression as he stretched his legs out and leaned back on his hands.

On the towering walls behind him hung the portraits of nineteenth-century gentlemen, women, families, and their pets. Some sat primly in the confines of their gilded frames, dressed in shining satin gowns and delicate lace, stoically observing the rest of the gallery. Others were wrapped up in conversation around tables laden with bread and ale or beside fireplaces that yawned dark and cold between their trousers and skirts. They discussed serious topics with furrowed brows and tense lines or made merry, throwing their smiles into the air and exciting the dogs at their feet.

Before Cole loomed one of the few landscape paintings in this gallery, a low, panoramic view of heavy clouds threatening a storm above pale, rolling grasslands. The broad strokes of oil created sharp contrasts between the dark clouds and the light being crowded out of the frame. He curled his fingers under the edge of the bench and tilted his head.

Footsteps echoed across the empty, polished hardwood floors, gathering closer to the gallery in which he sat. They sharpened when a security guard stepped into the room. He wore a dark blue uniform, jacket unzipped to reveal his flashing bronze nameplate, slight beer belly, and sparse utility belt. His eyes flicked around, sliding across the paintings to land on the Cole.

"The museum closes in fifteen minutes," he said firmly but not unkindly. His finger tapped against his belt buckle as he waited for a response, a quiet beat in contrast to the sharp snap of his gum.

Cole tore his eyes from the gathering clouds to blink at the guard. "Thank you."

The guard nodded. His footsteps faded as he entered another gallery to look for other remaining visitors. Cole pulled out his phone, the cracks in its screen catching the ridges of his finger pads, to double-check the time. He stood but lingered a few more moments with the dark clouds and wind-beaten grass.

But it was time to go.

A few other lingering visitors milled about the locker room, fiddling with the locks to remember their combinations. Cole headed straight for the same locker he used each time he came. Its door was red, part of a promotional mural pasted over the entire wall of lockers that advertised a traveling exhibit the museum had been hosting for a few months. His fingers spun the lock with deftness curated through repetition. His bag, a small duffle as worn as his clothes, the zipper resewn more than once, barely fit in the locker. He yanked to get it out.

As he passed through the lobby, the receptionist turned to give him a small wave. She stood on the wrong side of the front desk, refilling the flyers about the upcoming timeline of museum events. Cole waved back. He came to the museum often but had never seen her on this side of the desk. He now knew that she wore impractically high, pointy black heels to work, but they probably did not hurt her feet since she usually sat behind the desk.