A distant sea bird calls in the gallery. Yet, I cannot see one. The visitors mull around in corduroy, folded-arm consternation, with audio guides and little plaques to lead them through a maze of Turner and the Masters.
Something shifts in the corner of my eye. I turn back to the painting. The men carrying the trunk are wobbling and sweating feverishly as they lower precious cargo onto the boat.
The idle bystanders are laughing. The rowers are rowing. The Queen’s blue cloak ripples in a Red Sea breeze.
I step into the painting. I swallow hard and blink and stamp my feet in the dirt. Nobody sees.
I do not believe I was in the painting. I have an unsettling imagination that leaves me thirsting for reality. Yet I can taste Arabian salt on my lips.
I go home. I kick off my shoes. I roll damp socks into a ball and throw them down the hall. I watch the cat flick the sock toy in the air and pounce. Liberated feet breathe in airy relief and siliceous grains glisten between my toes.
Image source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Embarkation_of_the_Queen_of_Sheba