A Simple Incident

A simple encounter can open an unexpected door.

Inside a quiet art gallery, two strangers discover that behind every painting…

a hidden truth may be waiting.

A Simple Incident

by Faramarz Parsa

“Sir, you forgot your coffee.”

“Thanks. I’m always in a rush.”

“Your hands are full—let me bring it to your car.”

“I don’t have a car… my workplace is right across the street.”

“Alright, I’ll walk with you then.”

They crossed the street together. The woman glanced up at the sign above the entrance and paused.

Gallery ‘Look’.

“You work here?”

“Yes. Would you like to come in?”

“Why not… it has a beautiful name. Look.”

They entered the gallery. Soft light and quietness filled the space. She stepped forward, amazed.

“Wow… it’s beautiful. Have you worked here long?”

“No, about two years.”

Her eyes stopped on a painting—a woman’s profile with both eyes drawn on the same side.

“Look at this… how unusual.”

“You like it?”

“I like anything that captures my eyes… not just anything.”

Walking between the frames, she asked:

“So, did you just move here?”

“From where? The city or the job?”

“Oh… I mean where did you live before?”

“Austria. What about you? Are you from here?”

“No, I’m from New York. But these artworks…”

“My mother was French.”

“That explains all the French text. So why move here… to L.A.?”

“Because of my boyfriend.”

She hesitated, as if the word weighed on her.

“Your… boyfriend?”

“Yes. He left two months ago, without a word.”

“I’m sorry. Why without saying anything?”

“I don’t know. I woke up one morning and he’d left a note.”

“You must miss him… right?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve gotten used to it.”

She pointed at the paintings.

“All of these are yours?”

“Yes. I was inspired by my mother. She loved my father deeply… and she also had a girlfriend she cared for a lot.”

“Oh… your mother had a girlfriend? So she was with your father… and with her?”

“Mom used to say: ‘Loving someone is different from being in love. I’m in love with your father, but sometimes a person needs a different kind of tenderness… something that soothes the soul.’”

The woman asked, curious:

“And your father? Did he feel the same?”

“Dad said our love was mutual… as long as another man wasn’t involved.”

“Are you saying they were sometimes three?”

“No! I never said that. My father was never with anyone but my mother.”

“You’re sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing… let’s drop it. It was nice meeting you.”

He paused.

“By the way… what’s your name?”

“You’ll learn it next time. You… with these thoughts and these paintings… you’re interesting.”

She left the gallery. Outside, she turned back, her eyes rising to the sign above the door—

LOOK.

A curious smile touched her lips.

As if she had just understood something…