Waterloo

The woman was exquisite, Therese thought without really understanding why. She hadn’t examined her in any detail. Therese had barely dared to walk into the room when she was there let alone walk around her to see what she looked like. Her elegant back spoke volumes, though, she mused during the moments they were in the Rothko Room together. The way her head tilted slightly on the side was like a poem, she thought. Most of the time Therese imagined looking at a portrait of a woman, a painting she knew had to be three-dimensional but quite wasn’t.

“You’re not interested in people as they really are”, Genie had told her when they had still been together. “You see others the way you want them to be, and when they let you see their real selves you are disappointed.” The image, her interpretation of a person, was more important to her than the actual human, Genie had pointed out. And this she had told her while they were still relatively happy.

What an awful thing to say, Therese had thought at the time rejecting Genie’s estimate of her. Now it seemed like a fact she had come to accept. “You want your very own Madeleine Elster and that, my love, makes you Scottie Ferguson with a serious case of relationship vertigo.” Genie had meant it as a joke, of course, but it did hit home, even then.

“I fucking hate what you’re doing to me” became a turn on after a while, the only tangible way to get it on. Screaming at each other, verbally ripping each other apart, segued all too often into frenzied sex on the floor which more often than not resulted to Gen’s tears of despair and Therese's storming out of the apartment upset, even disgusted. Yet they let it happen again and again for it was the only way to rekindle the physical attraction that was leaving them for good.

It got to the point Therese no longer wanted to return to home after one of their more desperate attempts, after she hadn’t been able to get off no matter how hard Genie had tried. Totally smashed, she had let a total stranger pick her up and fuck her in some shabby little place near Maida Vale. What a pathetic night it had been, her being so wasted she could hardly get her clothes off let alone feel anything her companion did.

The girl, for she was just a girl, had been very eager to please, this much she had registered, but other than that Therese had only been able to grasp the peculiarity of her awkward touches, the uncomfortable pressure of her elbows and the all too hungry, hard mouth on her body. Even the smell of her was all wrong she had hazily realized lying on her back on a lumpy mattress.

At work Therese would have gladly spent all her time with the unknown woman for she had started to view her and the Rothko room as the only rays of sunlight in her decrepit life. It was, of course, not possible. She had her duties as museum guide which meant having to drag groups of hapless tourists up and down the floors of the modern art haven.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like or even love her job at times, it was the people she couldn’t stand – the endlessly mundane crowds who never seemed to pay attention to anything she opened up for them to appreciate. She despised the tourists whose only interest was to run through the exhibition halls on their way to the gift shop. Their platinum credit cards erect, they stood in queues ready to hoard printed museum shirts and scarfs to stroke their wafer thin cultural egos.

After every tour she would run back to the room to check if the woman was still there. Sometimes she was and when it happened, Therese felt as if all was well in the world for a moment, as if she could breathe a bit easier for just a little while. When she wasn’t, Therese was ridiculously disappointed, crushed by her sudden disappearance as if it had been a personal insult to her.

Now there she was at her usual place again in her quiet solitude, and Therese let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She sat down on the chair beside the door and attuned herself to the unbroken silence. They had never exchanged one word, never looked at each other, and maybe it wasn’t even necessary, Therese thought. I know what you are thinking.

After about twenty minutes the woman got up to Therese’s great surprise for she had never seen her exit the room before. She seemed taken aback by her presence. They stared at each other for a long time. If Therese had thought of her as exquisite before, only now she realized how truly beautiful the stranger really was.

Her magnificent face reminded Therese of a marble statue of Diana, Nymphe de Diane, by Eugene-Antoine Aizelin. It seemed to radiate the pure essence of light emanating from within instead of just reflecting any outer source visible to human eye. One to appreciate human form, Therese couldn’t but marvel the splendor of her body as well. Hers was a one to send battalions of hopeful lovers to their self-chosen deaths, she thought gazing at her figure so graceful and stirring at the same time.

“Hello”, the woman said recognizing her as one of the staff members by the plaque on Therese’s lapel. Her lips curved into a playful smile as if they’d known each other forever. “Hello”, replied Therese her voice hardly stronger than a whisper. “Are you the one who’s been sitting behind me all these weeks?” the woman asked mischievously. “Yes”, Therese said smiling shyly. “I hope I haven’t bothered you.” The woman seemed amused. “Why would it have bothered me? This room is for everyone, isn’t it?” No, it isn’t, Therese wanted to say. It’s only for the two of us.

“You like Mark Rothko?” Therese asked changing the subject. “I do – very much,” the woman replied letting her sight wander around the walls of the room. “Did you know he wanted to do large paintings for the exact opposite reason than how they were traditionally perceived?” she asked Therese. “He wasn’t interested in any grandiose or pompous displays… he painted them big because he wanted to be intimate and human.” The woman examined one of the murals very closely.

“He found smaller ones distancing,” Therese added knowingly, “something that places the viewer outside the actual experience the painting is supposed to project.” The woman turned around to look at her once more. “Exactly. Once you’re face to face with a big picture, you can’t escape it, you’re in it and it’s out of your control.” Her eyes were warm and smiling. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

For a flash of a second, Therese wanted inexplicably to go to her, to press her head against her bosom and ask for forgiveness for all her sins. She was certain the woman would understand everything – Genie lying in a hospital bed, her walking out on not just her and Richard but on love and hope as well.