15
" Four years in, she had discovered the gallery when a hailstorm chased her off the street. The door stuck - it still did - and was set back from the street between two shops that sold vintage clothing. Glenice climbed the stairs and went in. A grey-faced man peered out around a curtain at the far end of the room. He nodded, and returned to his heater and his laptop. He knew Glenice of old: she wouldn't buy, steal or vandalise anything, and he had no interest in her. His lumpy black cat strolled out, inspected Glenice, tested the patch of light that the window threw on the floor and stalked back into the office.
Quite often there was something here for Glenice. Today it was a room with a table, a vase, a dish of fruit and part of a window. The hungry blue of the window frame clashed perfectly with the blue of the tablecloth without taking it over. The vase held flowers, mauve, pinky yellow, pale red, blackish - Glenice tried and failed to call up the names of black flowers. The wall was a quiet, mortal sort of pink, and there were sleepy-looking pears slumped on a green dish. It looked to Glenice like the kind of room in which someone had gradually recovered from a long illness. She stared at the painting until her feet died from the cold and then she left. "
― Michelle de Kretser , The Life to Come