Upstairs Gallery

Following her up gallery stairs and looking at the display of gloves in every color, varying colors and styles.
Defiantly putting on the blue gloves, which I know are meant to be left as art, but they match my shirt and she made them.
Trying to ignore my blood that suddenly runs cold, runs in pain, as I look up and see the portrait at the top of the stairs.
It is the man she once loved, and painted many times, but clearly very recently for this show.
His eyes following us up the stairs, disapproving my actions and jealous she is with me.
Stopping to catch my breath, sweating at the reality of a painting and what it means.
I see her pull her glove off, one finger at a time, and toss it on the table with a come-hither look.
Impossible.
I look back, and yes, he is looking at me and she is laughing.
She hung him here, in bright color, rivaling me for her attentions.