“Hm, that’s an interesting one.” Maurice hummed as he stopped in front of the painting. The curator quietly approached and stood next to him. The curators right arm was propped beneath her breasts, her left arm resting on her opposite hand. She spiralled a piece of her golden hair in her fingers.
“Ghastly isn’t it?” the curator boomed, breaking the silence, “it was dropped off here, near the back door over there,” she pointed at the rusty, old rear entrance. “We don’t know who dropped it off, it just sort of appeared.” Silence fell between them, so palpable he felt he could pinch it. The curator grew tired, he assumed, and walked off to approach another spectator.
“Very ghastly,” he mumbled underneath his breath. As he strolled away, he smirked at the initials in the corner of the frame. M.J.
This is a response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, hosted by the lovely Priceless Joy. Picture provided by: pixabay.com
Word Count: 140