Whistler

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“Old guy,” my husband said in a low voice, his lips touching my ear. “Near the exit sign.”

“Stop it.” The joke itself was old as rocks.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “I’m serious. He kept looking at you in the ticket line. Then he followed us through Medieval Art, and now he’s just standing there. Do you see him? He looks at you whenever you’re not looking.”

“Everyone cuts through Medieval,” I said. “It doesn’t constitute stalking.” We were in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, New York.

“I didn’t say stalking.”

It wasn’t crowded by the standards of the Met, no blockbuster Van Gogh exhibit or Costume Institute to gum things up. If you took the time to notice the people around you, chances were you’d see some of them again in a different wing. “That guy?” I asked, tipping my head slightly in the direction of a tall, thin man who looked like a French film star—black jeans, loose black curls.

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