It all seemed like fiction, or film. That day, as he looked around him, Andrew felt strangely detached from the space as if there was a distance between him an the scene of the art gallery that was in front. Andrew’s glasses were the same style as Woody Allen, his favourite film director. Today he wore a speckled grey jumper that slouched on his lanky frame in a ‘I don’t care’ kind of way. 

Andrew heard a female voice say “‘You must like it here,” and he turned to look at the woman who had come over to him. He didn’t reply to the intrusion of silence as he wasn’t ready to make friends with a stranger, but polite etiquette made him wonder if he should have given more than the half smile an shrug.

The woman took it upon herself to break the silence with “I like it here. I like that the exhibition never changes. It’s the same space.”

Space. The word resonated with Andrew and he grasped it. He really knew what she meant, so decided there would be no harm in saying,

“I do. I come here whenever I get the chance. Lunch breaks from work, quiet weekends…”

Andrew’s words  casually trailed off and he looked up to the high ceiling. He noticed the sunbeams of frosty morning light stream in through the arched windows that overlooked the roof tops of the city centre. He liked the gallery because of the height of the ceiling and the white textured walls which acted as a sublime background for whatever the sky decided to throw in through the glass pane .

In a world where he normally battled for space to express himself, Andrew had found a place where he was understood without having to say a word. 

“It’s the staircase on the way in that I love. Kinda wish I could have something similar at home,” the stranger continued. 

Andrew instantly knew what she was highlighting. The angle of the staircase aligned perfectly with the shape of the exterior building and there was a neatly stencilled pattern of musical notes which followed accompanied you as you travelled up to the first floor of the gallery. 

Some days, especially some Thursdays, Andrew came to the gallery exhausted, burnt out and bored. Sick of the demands of work, he would walk through the entrance, see the staircase and as he would  head up step by step he’d feel tension melt and a freeing of himself, a simple clearing of clutter from his mind. At the top of the stairs he’d open the doors and see again what he had so many times before. His shoulders relaxed as he saw the sun glisten against the artwork. Right then, at that precise moment every time he reached his space, Andrew would see perfection.