358 tiles are placed on the ceiling. I know because I’ve been counting them all day. Nothing moves and nothing changes in this off-the-map art gallery. My boss insists that one of these days I’ll “see” something in one of these art pieces, but I stare and stare and nothing happens.

I don’t get it nor do I get the people that stroll in. I watch their bland faces contort with bewilderment and wonder. What could they possibly be seeing that I’m not? That’s why I’ve come to think that they’re all druggies; that’s why they can see imaginary things. It’s probably because I’m more of a music person. The assortment of sounds that play in this gallery are the only things keeping me awake. On any given day my ears welcome the sound waves of Caribbean timbales, African drums, East Asian strings, and more. Through the music I can transport myself far, far away from this insipid place and life.

Practically the only perk of the job is the excellent coffee maker in the corner. In addition, the building sits not too far the water and the way the sun’s rays shine through at the end of the day is utterly brilliant. Between working here and my studies in college, everything is routine. No matter how much I try to change my life, I always end up back at square one.

Speaking of squares, did I tell you that there are 358 of them on the ceiling and- wait… who is that?

It’s almost exclusively the regulars that stop by at the same time every day so I would’ve remembered him. I know pretty much every one who comes by. I’m here every day. My memory is extremely sharp; I remember every face.

And why so late? 

It’s less than an hour until closing time, right at sundown. The orange and scarlet rays are beginning to fill every crevice of the gallery, but he is impossibly shining brighter. Even the way he’s sauntering around the numerous artworks is eerie, but alluring. His face hasn’t a trace of puzzlement, but rather something… sad? Tell me more.

He’s gently running his hands along the sculptures now. I call out to tell him that he’s not allowed to, but my voice is diminished into a croak. He looks up at me, smirks and continues; mocking me. The memories of what my boss told me about how to deal with robbers are swirling around in my mind as my hands find the nearest makeshift weapon behind the counter.

I watch, hesitantly, as one of his arms snakes into his trench coat pocket and pulls out something. I stiffen. Relief washes over me as I observe a phone. Seeing him take a couple of harmless photos is enough to make my heart slow down. My head hurts pondering about what could possibly be so interesting about these local pieces, but I guess it doesn’t matter as long as people keep coming back. I slump back into my chair and pretend to be busy scribbling in my Biology 101 notebook. My coffee is cold.

“Excuse me? Hello? Pardon me…”

I nearly jump right off of my chair. My daydreams of a rainy day in Amsterdam are ripped away from me and I’m forced to face reality… or rather a handsome, freakishly tall man. The resonance of his voice rings in my ears.

“Uh, yes?”

“Are any of these fine works for sale?” the stranger asks with a quirked eyebrow, “They’d be perfect additions to my growing collection…”

“Oh why yes! Let me just get the catalogs for you” I say, in a small voice I don’t recognize, as I get up to retrieve some of the binders lining the walls behind me.

Silence spreads itself out like a blanket over the building. The sun’s rays are turning a deeper shade of orange with hints of purple as they burn brighter into the small space. The smell of coffee is faint now and is gradually being replaced by an earthier and more elemental aroma that I can’t place.

As I turn around, binders in hand, he stands there staring glaring at me with searing brown eyes that glow gold in the sunlight. Heat crawls onto my face and I can’t control the nervous giggle that slips through my lips. I observe his defined facial features and how in the midst of the intensity, his eyes are glazed with an almost undetectable sadness. The man opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t. I hate when people do that.

Instead, he takes the binders from my hands and lays them out on the counter. Between turning the pages, he glances up at me and continues searching for his desired pieces as if he isn’t making me uncomfortable. I yawn and scold myself in my head for doing such a mundane thing in a situation like this. He glances up again, a look of surprise on his face, and closes the binder. I watch him methodically stack them one on top of the other. The sun is finally setting upon us.

“Thanks, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He reaches out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm.

“Have a good-” I call, but he’s already out of the glass doors. So much for being friendly.

I place the binders back in their rightful places on the shelves and begin to pack up my things. Something is off. My Biology 101 notebook! It’s gone! I need it for class in just an hour! I search frantically and my panic is resolved when I find my notebook… and something else.

“What the…” I whisper as I observe my book. Next to my scribbles from earlier there are words; not to mention that I was unconsciously doodling a very rough sketch of the stranger from earlier. I don’t recognize the handwriting and automatically assume that it’s his. He must’ve wrote in my open book when I was getting the binders. That’s why he was staring at me, trying to figure out if I’d ever catch on! I’m so slow sometimes…

The note reads: Nice, but I know you can do better. Anyways, how much? -TOP

Top? What kind of… my scribbles are for my eyes only! He’s obviously poking fun at how awful it is. I stifle a laugh at his humor. This TOP-guy didn’t even leave me his number. Wow. He got my hopes up for absolutely nothing. Not that I like him or anything -because I don’t- but it’d be nice to know that I can expect to see some changes in my life.