I stood beside the auburn-lit lamp post as I waited for him across the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a haven of magnificent works, or better, masterpieces of the great artists from ancient times to the 21st century. I’ve always loved that place and just being in there takes my breath away. I used to go to the museum with my foster father, but now that he’s gone I’ve got no one to accompany me and share the wondrous beauty of art.

Art has always been my passion, my first love. Art harbours exquisiteness nothing in this world could ever replace. Art needed not words but art alone can bring out reality in life. And like how art is life to the world, there is only one person who means the world to me.

Amadour. Oh, the slay who always sweeps me off my feet, the man who conquered every thing in me, the very mirror of my soul. My loving Amadour. His beauty is constant, as if he caught every shower of Aphrodite’s allure. The moment I saw him, all I wanted was to ran into his arms and look through his amber eyes. But his orbs were not the same as I looked at them before. He was filled with rage, but this rage was an exemplary of angst. I know why. I understood. I also felt that way a while ago.

It was down twilight when I called him to meet me at the Met. It was Friday so the museum would be closing by 9 PM. His cab exactly stopped in front of me, but he didn’t turn my gaze. I was shaking so hard that I crumpled my skirt and my knuckles turned pale. I tried to act ordinarily as I have always been with him. But this was no excuse. I was afraid of what to say or what to do. When I told him it’s gonna be over, my feelings of anguish cannot be dissolved.

Every time I felt this way, he would filter every doubt into ease; worry into faith; and contempt into love. Then I would feel better. I was comforted by him, and there is sense of care in every action. I actually see my relationship with Amadour as an art. I thought we need not words to communicate but the beat of our hearts would speak for us. His face was carved into many mixed emotions, and evey day he was painted differently. Tonight, his face was carved into the most peculiar angle.

He held my hand for a second. I thought he would let go then, but a minute had passed until we were fully inside the museum, and he didn’t part with my hand. It was a good feeling. I stopped trembling. His warmth never failed to give me calm. My anxiety was yet supressed with affection.

He didn’t say a word since he came. I kept quiet for the hours we spent together so I could take a good look at the gallery. He did the same, but we were far apart. I could sense the tension building up, but I didn’t take advantage. Not now. I must hang on – just a little more time.

The Met was a gigantic asylum of paintings, but I only searched for one. That same painting my father had in Paris. It was an art I behold the most. An art that can express what I truly feel at the moment. There. I saw it. We both saw it. We looked at the same direction where it hung. So brilliant. So elevated. So tearing. Sympathizing. I’ve got to get a hold of myself before I have a rush of sober.

And then I found out I was talking to myself in a dark-walled city where it only exists in my mind.

Do you know why we were here? Do you know why I wanted to be with Amadour so bad? Why I felt disturbed inside?

It’s because of rage. The rage of angst I was talking about Amadour’s eyes. Didn’t I say I know, that I understood? Yes, I perfectly understood because I gave him this feeling. The very same feeling that painting I love made me hate it this way. They were lovers, like I and Amadour. They were embracing each other, but in a means that it would be the last time they would ever feel each other. I felt the woman in the picture. I was the woman. I was engulfed with amatory, but I am lonely. I despise myself for loving my ego. I was selfish. I am leaving Amadour without hesitations, because I don’t want to give up that dream my father and I built. I felt pain. It ceases my heart. I cannot be with my lover not for who I am but for what I could be. I was blind. Where did the art go? Where is my life? Where is my world? Every beauty I witnessed turned into a grave and grotesque selfdom.

Amadour,

I am sorry. I don’t want you to be hurt, but I cannot continue being selfish when I am with you. You are an art that was God’s grace to me, but I am not to you. I loved you my whole life but there is nothing I can do for you. I love you but… but!

I just can’t keep on loving you without you getting hurt.

I can’t paint your face with thousands of smiles anymore.

I can’t see the beauty and love you’ve given me before.

Thank you.

Au revoir.
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- Based on Egon Schiele's The Embrace

This is my last-minute entry for the challenge Art in a Form, which was reportedly hidden in theO site. I don't know why staff would have to delete such a beautiful challenge for those with creative minds, but PLEASE, GET IT BACK. I'd love to join other challenges like this.

So this was a story, a fan fiction by me rather, about lovers and a certain painting. They both love art, but the woman (I named her Cherelle, meaning dear one and the man, Amadour, meaning lover - both French names.) had this selfish dream and she didn't want to be a burden to her lover.

I didn't include dialogs 'cause I thought it'd make the story longer. I was lacking time so I have to hurry to get done. My plot is kind of sad, but it's how I interpret the art I've chosen.

Any forms of feedback is appreciated.