She was full of questions and eye contact. He told her of the history of another and another painting as she listened with an approximation of attention. If she’d asked him to repeat what he’d just said he couldn’t have obliged her. He was aware that he was speaking a familiar speech that he’d given to tour groups of grandmothers and art students before her but he couldn’t say at what point in the speech he was. He could draw her deep blue eyes from memory though. He knew the brushstrokes that would paint her hair.
At the end of each speech at each painting she riddled him with questions. Had this artist been influenced by a certain other artist? From whose collection did the museum receive it? Had it been offered or was it pursued? How many times had they asked? She knew the answers. He felt her study his reactions at each question mark. He felt her undressing him with her eyes from his knowledge downward.
“What is your least popular exhibit?” she asked, her gaze penetrating him as he welcomed more.
“The furniture on the lower level.”
She stepped forward. “Why isn’t it popular?”