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It was at the Met, in the impressionist exhibit that I first saw her. She was exotic in a middle-eastern way. Perhaps forty, but who could really tell. Beautiful dark skin and raven-black hair, and eyes like dark pools of water. She was with another man. A youngish man in his early thirties was with her, attractive in a slightly feminine kind of way. And from the way they moved, I could tell they were friends. I would have moved on, but she caught my eye on several occasions. Enough to tell me, there was an opportunity somewhere, even if not today. So I followed them into the next room, a room alive with splashes of color that reached to the ceiling. It was there that she started to separate from her partner. Walking a little slower as he moved ahead. Taking her time as I entered the room.

I almost couldn’t help it but to walk up next to her. It was a magnificent canvas, bold and bright, and something where a comment could be made. So I made one. To be honest, I’m not even sure what it was about - something about lines and art and creativity. She smiled. Seemingly shy and withdrawing, but at the same time inviting. Her partner had disappeared so I took up stride and began to walk with her past the paintings.

We talked, mostly about the art, about creativity, about exploring, about open minds and hearts. There were enough hints dropped that we both glimpsed at where it was going. She told me about her. She was married, happily so, but in a lustless relationship. The man she was ...

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