A Story Of One Painting

Why Does The Dog Wag Its Tail?

"We have to benefit, right?" you lift your cup and take a small sip.

"Here we go!" Bert leans back with a short laugh, "I can tell you slept well last night."

You almost choke on your coffee, "Yes, very well."

"I bet you had some good wine, didn't you?"

"Oh, I did," a bottle of Michael Joseph Jackson 1958, excellent vintage!

"Told you it would help. Now, what's the plan? Our flight is this evening so we still have plenty of time."

"No plans, Bert. I'm dreaming of a hot bath, my head is still a bit dizzy from yesterday's... wine," you clear your throat wondering if Michael is already awake. Has he called your mobile? Will he?

"Sure, baby. Go. Relax. I'll see you in the lobby at 6." He gets up and offers you his hand. Twisting your arm around his elbow, Bert walks you to the elevator.

As the doors open, he puts a swift kiss on your cheek, "Well done. And it's only the beginning." You smile reassuringly, releasing your arm from his grip.

If you only knew how right he was.

********

You toss your mobile phone on the bed in disappointment. Not a word, not a call. Damn it! You pace the room, a swarm of thoughts buzzing in your head. It seems that Bert's precise definition is applicable not only to Kirk Stambulchian! Then you recall your last night's conversation and feel guilty. Michael certainly had a tough introduction to the adult relationship between men and women. Honestly speaking, he had a freaking tough introduction to life in general. His childhood probably holds the key to all the answers but you feel like this subject is yet another taboo. It must be a whole world of obscure pain. God, this is all so frustratingly complex! 'You have chosen it yourself, Mary,' your subconscious smirks at you once again. Well of course, it's your choice! But there is one small issue: you want Michael, not his whole baggage of mysteries hidden in his head as in the box of Pandora. Are you ready to embrace that? You are willing to try. But here he is leaving you in the dark this time around.

A quiet knock at the door cuts the flow of your thoughts. You cannot seize your heart beating rapidly against your ribs as you cross the room to open it. The familiar wardrobe-size man is standing in the doorway.

"Ms. Morgan," he nods.

"Hi."

"This is for you," he hands you a small package.

"Oh..." you accept it, blinking rapidly, "what's this?"

"This is from Mr. Jackson."

Duh! He is certainly not payed for being smart. Or talkative.

"Thank you," you smile at him dryly. The wardrobe-man nods shortly and in a second you are left alone, squeezing the package in one hand and the door handle in the other. You push the door shut and move to the bed, tearing the cellophane cover on your way. Your impatient fingers lift the lid of the carton to uncover a slick black device inside of it. A mobile phone. Seriously? Carefully you take it out and stare at the screen, puzzled. To your surprise, it lights up as you press one of the buttons. The phone is turned on and fully charged. OK, what's next? You press the 'call' button, immediately a set of figures appears in front of your amazed gaze. Michael's number. The door to his personal, self-created universe stands ajar now. He is finally willing to let you in. You cling to the phone as if it were a life buoy, your palms going sweaty.

Call him, don't be a coward!

You stare at the screen blindly, caressing the green button with your thumb. Then still hesitantly, you press it and abruptly stick the phone to your ear. Your mouth immediately goes dry as you hear the first beep. A dry click cuts the second one.