TANYA

 

 

Tanya walks in front of me.  I follow her as she walks through the Art Museum.  I am oblivious to the great works of art on the walls.  The modern art does nothing for me at this moment.  I don’t understand any of it.  As far as I am concerned, Tanya is the finest work of art in the building.  No painter or sculptor can approach the work of God when a beautiful woman blossoms in front of you.

 

She occasionally turns to me and makes some observation about the artwork.  I am indifferent to the art and not sure about what she is saying,  The sound of her voice is lyrical.  I nod my head and say, “yes” or “ugh huh” and agree with her.  I don’t care about this art.  I only care about Tanya.  She is the wondrous work of inspiration.  Van Gogh could never say as much as her eyes.

 

These great works of art are beyond me.  I am a rube; a simple suburban boy.  I have found a great beauty in Tanya.  I take hold of her hand as we walk through the gallery.  A line etched down the side of the wall is viewed as a great work of art.  I feel like questioning this but I bite my tongue.  I tighten my grip on Tanya’s hand and we just walk along.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this in my early 20s.  I changed the name but now I don't remember clearly who I actually wrote this for.

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