My boyfriend works in an art gallery. Sometimes I feel like that gallery is “the other woman” trying to steal him away – calling all the time, making up excuses to see him when he’s not supposed to be there…
Part of me wants to make a scene about this. I could storm into the still quiet of the gallery in my best ass-kicking boots crying, “Aha! It’s you! You’re the one who’s been texting him at 1am!” (I might have to aim this at whichever particular staff member is around rather than the gallery as a whole so people don’t think I’m crazy right away. Woe betide any volunteer who tries to sell me a watercolour print when I’m in this mood.)
I could channel Katharine Hepburn’s haughty derision and make them feel tiny and insignificant. I could belittle their artistic integrity and their reliance on traditional styles rather than embracing innovative contemporary movements. I could mock their chipped paintwork and sagging furniture, although that’s getting a little personal.
The trouble is, this isn’t my fight. The Boy has to decide whether or not to break all ties or stick around and try to leave things better than he found them. This gallery, this “other woman” relying on him because it can, is kill or cure.