His hand had the contradictory nature of being large but soft, you had to constantly squeeze his fingers to remember they’re there. You were walking in companionable silence. Your footsteps echoing off the walls of the museum. With everything going on, Imre wanted to whisk you away on a date. You don’t know much about these things, but a date isn’t the most exciting place.
But that’s not the point with Imre. In these moments, his hands in yours, stopping to stare at hung up paintings, wasn’t boring at all.
He once told you: “I like reading, soft music, libraries, museums, walks and lively conversations about a variety of topics. All things that are rather mundane in the eyes of others.”
He scoffs at the kind of entertainment people indulge in these days. He maintains that for the vast majority of history, you didn’t need loud tv and bombs on movie screens to have fun. That the advent of an increasing technological world would have devastating consequences on the overall intelligence of humankind.
You asked him to imagine if you could carry your telephone everywhere and he made a face that ended that conversation and had him in a foul mood for the rest of the day.
Imre tugs you toward a medium-sized painting. It depicts a man, laying on a rock, gigantic wings sprouting from his back while naked women surround him. Imre tilts his head towards you, “what do you think this painting depicts?”
You look closely at the expression on the man’s face. You walk closer, your hand never leaving Imre’s.
“Is this Icarus?”
Imre hums. You back away. “Why this painting?”
Instead of answering you he asks, “it’s strange that Draper decided to depict Icarus’ wings intact, don’t you think?”
You nod. “I’m pretty sure his wings fall off because the wax melts, right? He shouldn’t have them on.”
Imre nods, “yes. I think it’s the artist’s way of showing the durability of the wings, perhaps to attribute the fall to Icarus only and not towards any malfunction of the wings. Perhaps due to the time period in which it was painted. Aviation was a marvelous new thing that was a few years off.”
You look at him, his mouth is set in a neutral expression but his eyes look almost drowsy as he looks at the painting. You think that maybe he brought you to this painting for a specific reason. There is nothing Imre does without a reason.
“Do you think of yourself like Icarus?” you ask, running your finger along his wrist.
Imre’s eyes slowly slide to yours, “that would mean I think of myself as a failure.”
You shake your head, “no it would mean you think you could fail.”
Imre passes in front of you, tugging you along to the next painting. A woman in a baby blue dress kisses a man in red, his hat obscuring his face and a bit of hers. Imre watches you watching the painting. The man holds the woman’s face, his leg propped up to trap her in between his legs.
“What do you think?” he asks.
You move your mouth from left to right and back before answering. “It’s… erotic.”
“Yes it is. You might be surprised to know it is not about sex at all, it is about patriotic love,” he replies.
You raise an eyebrow, “I don’t think I get art then.”
Imre lightly chuckles. “I don’t understand much of art either, I just know history and interpretation.”
“Yeah but you still sound so smart,” you counter, “even when you don’t know something you never make yourself look stupid.”
Imre gently touches your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do you think you’re stupid?”
You shrug, “next to you I might as well be. It’s like being friends with a model. You might be attractive yourself but there’s you and then there’s a model.”
Imre’s soft fingers sweep along your chin, stopping to cup it and tilt your face up towards his. His face is expressionless but his voice is soft and the fingers on his other hand run along your knuckles.
“That’s disappointing. I don’t want to be with someone who thinks less of themself. May I remind you, cariño, that I chose you. It will seem like I’m a braggart for saying this but we both know I don’t have a lack of options. Are you doubting my tastes?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes.
You can’t help but smile slowly, “how did you manage to make yourself the victim?”
He smiles, his dimples showing. “It doesn’t help your feelings of inadequacy that I have so many talents.”
You poke his side, “yeah and you never let me forget that.”
He leans in closer, his mint flavoured breath ghosting over your lips. “Why not recreate the painting to show you how much I value your companionship?”
You lean in, your lips only grazing against his, “why does that sound like we have a business relationship? You could try to be more romantic on Valentine’s Day after all.”
He presses his lips to the side of your own and mumbles, “you’re right. It is not romantic to equate you to this painting. Neither of its subjects could ever compare to you, Hayez could have only dreamed of having you sit for his canvas.”
Your smile grows wider as you run your hand along his waist. “That’s more like it.”
He whispers in your ear, “although, if I were him I would’ve asked for a nude portrait instead.”
You feel your face flush as he presses a kiss to your ear. He moves back, not before pressing a feather-light kiss on your cheek. He has a gentle smile on his face when he brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses your knuckles.
“So chaste.”
He smiles against your hand. “You’re deliciously tempting but I would rather have you all to myself in a locked room than let others–” he looks around at the milling couples, “– enjoy what belongs to me.”
You snake your arm around his waist as he leads you to another painting, “happy Valentine’s Day Imre.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, amor.”