Member-only story
The Performance Artist
I couldn’t help but watch.
Her name was Rosa.
The name, written in cursive on a small white card outside the glass box in which she sat, was not what I would have chosen for her. The Museum of Contemporary Art had become an after-thought in the megalopolis where my friend Jack and I lived — trying to eke out a living while our college cohorts pursued grander heights in the tech world — but we had thought it would be a nice reprieve to come here and wander the art scene while trying to corral ideas for our own pieces back home.
Rosa, for her part, sat in a corner of the glass box with her knees pulled up to her chest as she stared ahead, unmoving. I noticed her nails were bitten down to the quick. All she wore was a black dress shirt, two buttons open to let a small peek of cleavage out, with her underwear just barely visible from where she sat. But she wasn’t trying to look sexy, no. Instead, she looked haunted.
My eyes retreated back to the white card. An Alienated Life, it read in stark letters alongside her name. I knew it was performance art, but a part of me wanted to go inside the glass box with her and cradle her close to my chest. I wanted nothing more than to feel her head rest against my heartbeat while the outside world looked on, unaware to the inner workings of what crept between us.
