Chapter 1: Tall, Dark Stranger

The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not a bad place to call home. At least, it feels like home more than any other place I’ve been since I was a spindly kid of nine. I know I’m not alone in this feeling. All sorts of people return to this place day after day.

There’s the tattered gentleman who wears an overcoat no matter the weather and always goes straight to the Impressionists. And then there’s the lady I call The Aristocrat. Dressed to impress in a pastel designer suit and pearls, I’ve caught her staring with blatant lust at the nudes in the European sculpture gallery and she doesn’t even blush.

I don’t work at The Met. I don’t live here either. I just can’t seem to leave it alone. There’s one place in particular. My place.

Every time I come, I follow the same path like a ritual. I wander through the Egyptian exhibit, radiant with sunlight on clear days and dark with drama during storms. I pass through the crowds of tourists trying to get selfies with the temple architecture and make my way to the second floor. I wind my way through the darkly lit rooms of Buddhist art and cross over the Great Hall. As I near my destination, my heart always starts skipping and my stomach twists, like I’m about to find something left behind, long ago.

With a dry mouth, I enter the wing. Usually quiet, The Art of Arab Lands wing is a peaceful, humble section. No dramatic skylights or towering temple doors here. It’s pretty straightforward. Still, I have to stop myself from running to my spot.

My spot is a dark little room with a bench in the middle. The glass cases that line the walls are filled with golden trinkets, fragments of rock walls, and ivory ornaments found among the dunes of Northern Africa. A comforting trance comes over me in this room, my mind feels pulled away as I sit down and face the glass case. I don’t read the descriptions of the pieces. I don’t really even look at them. I just sit in the room and let the feeling take over me.

Honestly, these days, I try to reign myself in. Not too long ago, I sat down at 3 in the afternoon and came to when a security guard started shaking my shoulder at 9:15 after they had already started closing the museum.

How did I let six hours slip by without hearing any announcements? How come I never came to when fellow visitors passed through the room? This section was quiet, not abandoned. Six hours went by without pausing to use the bathroom or grab a drink of water or even stand and stretch. While I feel at home in the room, I really can’t say what happens there.

I feel disconnected after spending time in front of the anonymous-looking display case. It’s as if I’m a lab rat, taken from a land beyond and dropped back into its maze. When I come out of my trance, all I see is a museum display that I don’t actually know anything about and my reflection.

Today, after shaking myself back to reality, I study myself in the glass. I take in my dark curls, my wide hazel eyes framed by full eyebrows that always seem to be arched in surprise, my long nose, and my full lips, all pale and watery in the museum glass.

In these moments, I wonder if I’m starting to look like my mother. She was around my age when she had me. According to my grandma, my arrival brought a quick period of peace to her chaotic life. My mother disappeared when I was two, and we never were a family that took pictures. This is why, when I stare at my reflection, I wonder if I am seeing her face, blurred and distant in the museum glass.

In these moments, coming away from the trance and back to cold hard reality, I feel like I’m falling a long distance, from a state of blissful belonging and understanding back to my solo self. Myself is not a prospect I’m comfortable with. Petra Figura, a girl so tragic that she was orphaned twice, cursed to wander the world looking for her pack like some mangy lost puppy.

That’s what I was thinking, at least, when I looked up from studying myself in the case tonight to see a man standing at the door of my spot. When I see him, dark and brooding, I gasp out loud and put a hand to my throat like some uptight dame from a 1920s movie. The man doesn’t move back and apologize as a normal, adjusted person with manners would. In fact, he doesn’t react much at all.

Funnily enough, he also seems to belong to the silver screen era. It’s something about the way he’s standing. His sneaker is tucked behind one long leg and his finger is placed like a mustache, curled under his nose. He’s wearing an oversized button-up corduroy shirt and his elbow is tucked into the palm of his wide hand. If smoking were allowed in The Met, he’d look right at home with a stogie. He studies me.

He’s catlike and confident in the small space, seemingly unaware of the possibility that he could possibly make me feel uncomfortable. And even though I’m blushing, feeling suddenly hot under the weight of my hoodie, I don’t feel uncomfortable. What I feel is alive. My head buzzes in an attitude that’s something akin to giddy, though I notice I’m still frozen in place. I open under his stare and I meet his dark eyes with my own.

A beat passes. Two. Finally, I break the live current of our gaze and let my eyes gather in his good looks. His handsome countenance sparks a sudden ember of anger in me. What a cliche. Tall, dark, and handsome. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place and I’m the one who’s visiting him. His deep brown eyes drink me in with seasoned interest.

“Can I help you?” I say, at last.

I won’t play games with some wanna-be Hugh Hefner and I don’t normally let myself get cornered. Grabbing my bag, I take a step toward the door. The man simply raises his eyebrows, the corner of his wide mouth twitching into a micro smile before he rolls away into the main corridor. I bristle. Does he just expect me to follow him? My insides turn with a cocktail of anger and, if I’m being honest, unadulterated want.

Stepping out into the light, I blink. I briskly walk through all the rooms in the wing. I speed walk through The Damascus Room, through Medieval Iran. I get all the way to the Main Gallery before I give up. The man moved fast. He’s nowhere to be seen. And I’ll be damned if he sees me speeding around looking for him. I certainly wasn’t trying to follow him.

I slow to a walk and lean over the Great Hall railing, looking down on all the people walking about below. All of them, decidedly not the man I just saw staring into my soul.

“Creep”, I mutter to myself. But I knew better. Disappointment resonates deep in my body. Could a look that intense just be some f*ck boy’s come-on? Could he be some player practicing mind games? What a waste if that’s the case. Because his gaze touched me where I craved it most. As much as I hate to admit it, I need to see that man again. I need to know who he is.