Forty-One Minutes, Seventeen Seconds, and Eight Milliseconds

Sarah Hohn

English Major—2nd Year

HIM

The marble floor of the MoMA feels chillingly cold under his right knee as he presses it firmly into the ground, locked into position and still, like an offensive player before the first whistle blows—completely frozen yet focused. He looks up at her, widening his almond-colored but peach-shaped eyes. Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory almost literally tick-tocked aggressively in the background, as if he and she were the only people in a room full of artists, students, and retired grandpas. Seven curly hairs had fallen from the top of his head and landed on the perfectly pressed suit jacket that is overworn but fresh and holding its natural black color, nonetheless. Next to the rogue hairs lay twelve individual beads of sweat, for the museum’s desert-like heat penetrated through the layers of hair gel and deodorant he had applied exactly four hours, thirty-five minutes, and twenty-seven seconds prior to this awkward moment.

HER

She begins to worry. There are no words to say to someone who has been on one knee, uncomfortably looking at you for what feels like all twelve hours on the leftmost melted clock in Dali’s painting. She notices the beads of sweat dripping from his forehead, which only makes her own sweat feel more prevalent. Her palms, clammy and wet, yet freezing at the same time, rub against the dark-washed blue jeans tucked neatly into a pair of Zara black ankle booties, which she hurriedly zipped up exactly one hour, seventeen minutes, and nineteen seconds prior to him bending down on one knee in the middle of a room full of the most expensive artwork in the city of Manhattan. As Dali’s artwork continues to click, the seconds feel like they are speeding up. Like minutes have already been wasted with a slow breath and a vacant stare.

Rene Magritte’s The Lovers awkwardly kiss behind her fiery, curly hair, and a tear forms in her cerulean blue eye as she struggles to put together words, let alone a full sentence. How long have we been standing here? Is LITERALLY everyone watching us right now? What do I say? What is he thinking right now? Her fingers curl, and the sweat continues to accumulate as she has the ability to think herself into eternity, but speech feels handicapped at the moment.

HIM

The clap shut of the ring box finally breaks the silence but triples the awkwardness. Suddenly, the emerald green stone is gone. He slowly and calmly puts the box back into his jacket pocket and begins the trek from the floor to an upright position, eventually standing tall at six feet and a few inches. Since the moment he knelt, two minutes, thirteen seconds, and four milliseconds had passed. It felt like years.

HER

Her slightly melted makeup causes an itch to spread across her left eyebrow, which she feels partly uncomfortable reaching to scratch, as everyone’s beady eyes are on them, waiting for her or him to utter something. Literally anything. The tension in the small room full of artwork far more important and expensive than anyone witnessing this scene’s life is greater than losing a virginity after prom. She watches as he stands up, presses his suit jacket down, and pulls his dark jeans up to conform to his small waist. Her basically empty black leather backpack feels heavy on her back, causing a shooting pain from the small of her peach fuzz covered spine to the space below her green lace bra strap. He is no longer looking at her, yet it seems like he is looking for the nearest escape route. She certainly is.

HIM

Although he had been waiting for her to speak, considering he was the last one to blurt out words that undoubtedly changed both of their lives forever, he started. With no warning, his face becomes red hot like Frida Kahlo’s famous lipstick or Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s soup can, and the words begin to spill out of his pursed lips, ammunition shooting directly at her. These words are becoming increasingly loud and aggressive as he gets closer, small step by small step. The aggressive FUCK YOUS and WHAT THE FUCKS can be heard from the second floor of the museum, where people are peacefully attempting to reminisce about the beauty of World War II realism. He gets louder still, and the spit accumulating in his mouth is abundant, unable to be withheld by his tongue or his teeth. His face, almost an eggplant shade now, can barely contain his eyes any longer, while his mouth says YOU DO THIS SHIT TO ME ALL THE TIME. At this point, the audience is waiting for this to become physical, as his distance from her is practically nonexistent. Still having said nothing, she is looking up at him with glassy eyes, for she stands about six inches shorter than him, even in heels.

HER

His words hurt, but they aren’t unfamiliar. For some, this is a unique experience, being berated publicly by your partner. For both of them, it was a typical Wednesday night. Still, she had just as much difficulty controlling her emotions as she used to. Keeping a straight face, welled up tears fall down her hot cheek as his words I DON’T DESERVE THIS travel in through her left ear and immediately out of her right. He doesn’t really mean it, she tells herself while feeling basically chained to him at this point. Since the first obscenity was blurted out of his round mouth, one minute, twenty-three seconds, and six milliseconds had passed of anger and fear. Vacuuming the tear back into her duct, she straightens her posture, tilts her perfectly symmetrical head, forms a fist, and begins to give back everything he has just given her. YOU DON’T DESERVE THIS? I DON’T DESERVE THIS. YOU THINK I WANT TO MARRY YOU? YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT, she screams back at him, interrupting every train of thought running through his scrambled brain. Her orange curls bounce as her head bobbles back and forth, while her feet move quickly, somehow making the space between them even smaller, if that’s even possible. They are nearly kissing, with their lips only centimeters from each other. The audience grows as he and she become the focus of a group of teenagers from a center city school, a few nannies, and three families visiting from Nebraska, Canada, and Louisiana. These MoMA visitors are standing nearby, glancing back and forth, attempting to refrain from being too obvious. Even so, each person is clearly indulging in the drama of the argument, which at this point, lasted for three minutes, forty-seven seconds, and eighteen milliseconds all accounted for on Dali’s clock, still perched perfectly on the wall. Security’s footsteps sound closer and more daunting as the whole museum’s atmosphere has been rudely interrupted by him and her talking back and forth in all capital letters. Just as security reaches the stop of the turtle-paced escalator and glimpses the cause of the noise and commotion, she bridges the gap between them and shoves him out of her face with the palms of both of her perfectly manicured hands pressing aggressively against his puffed chest.

HIM

With her hands pressed against him, he stumbles backward, nearly crashing into the wall behind him. She reaches towards him again, but somehow he deflects her, allowing him to regain his balance on the cold, eggshell-colored floor. The mothers, grandfathers, artists, and especially security are all baffled, watching this near boxing match take place exactly where seven minutes, fifty-one seconds, and fifteen milliseconds ago, a beautiful Manhattan proposal happened between an extremely good looking couple. Regardless of the audience’s astonishment and the security guards attempting to butt in, he and she continue to tussle, just nearly missing the wall and its precious paintings with each alternating swing, shove, and yell.

HER

Finally, after three minutes, forty-five seconds, and twelve milliseconds, she is aggressively shoved off of him by a bald Dwayne the Rock Johnson-looking, all black-wearing MoMA security professional. She is tackled, stumbling to the floor breaking the heel on her left shoe. At this moment, her backpack flies off her back and into the air, like a shooting star from Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Her tears, now completely covering her mascara-stained face, drip onto the marble as she is stuck underneath this man that doubles her in size. For forty-seven seconds and six milliseconds, she is stuck, unaware of anything around her, and struggling to get up.

HIM

Upsettingly sweaty, out of breath, and exhausted from a long day of disappointment, he glances towards her, lying on the ground, also breathless and perspiring. He makes deep contact with her wide, tearful eyes while he wipes a single droplet from his peachy cheeks. The fight has ended, but it is not over. They speak full sentences to each other with the strength of imperative eye contact and suddenly, everyone in the museum is gone. They stare at each other in a fit of tunnel vision and finish their beautiful eye contact conversation while being picked up and dusted off. He leans down, refraining from breaking eye contact, snatches her black backpack off of the ground, and follows her to the escalator, accompanied by security. Stood in front of her on the escalator, he can feel her warm breath grazing the dark hairs on the back of his neck. Blood drips from his busted lip, but he wipes it away before grasping the backpack tighter on his shoulders.

HER

Her gaze stays strong on him, while simultaneously glancing around the floors of the museum at all of the people, fixed strongly on each piece of brilliant artwork. She travels downwards on the escalator, nervously tapping her fingers on the railing. The front doors let them on to fifty-third street where the night is early, the taxis are bright yellow, and the city is loud. The smell of New York City air attacks her noses and the squish of the wet ground splashes beneath her one-heeled pair of shoes holding two overworked feet. Outside of the glass MoMA front doors, she slowly reaches for his hand, interlocking their fingers. Thirty-seven minutes, twenty-two seconds, and fourteen milliseconds had passed since they stepped inside of the museum together. The pace speeds up as they walk hand in hand down fifty-third to the nearest subway station, and they descend underground, hoping to catch the J train back to Brooklyn. In these moments, stepping on to the train, the air feels different—richer. Covered in what are soon-to-be bruises, blood, and each other’s DNA, the couple steps onto the train to find a seat in the surprisingly empty car.

The train is lurched into motion, sending him and her straight into a seat together. Still holding hands, they sit close enough to feel each other’s warmth through two pairs of jeans. Both of their hands are covered in sweat but neither of them mind. No words are spoken because no words are needed. Finally, relief.

HIM

Slowly and quietly he removes her backpack from his back, places it upon their touching laps, and unzips the metal zipper. Inside, beautifully glowing, Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory perfectly upright and in mint condition rests calmly in the front pouch, unwinding from the earlier commotion. A heist, successfully completed in forty-one minutes, seventeen seconds, and eight milliseconds.