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.
You see, I had recognized Rosa as soon as I walked in. I just didn’t say anything to Jack. But I didn’t think Rosa was her real name.
I knew she was a bartender on Farraway Street, down near the stadium, where drunks were the standard — especially on nights when there were games or concerts bringing tourists out of the woodwork. I had seen her a few weeks back when she had been bustling back and forth, trying to fill as many drink orders as possible on a busy Saturday night when a popular rock band had filled the nearby stadium with tens of thousands. I hadn’t gotten tickets, but a pull to the place had made me want to join the fray of people.
I sat down on a bar stool and pretended to watch a hockey game on the big screen until the bartender came to me to get my drink order. She flashed a smile around smudged lipstick, revealing a smile marred only by one chipped tooth on the left side of her mouth. But I smiled back.
