He had always been mesmerized by the way her smooth skin hugged her sturdy exterior, but he’d never worked up the courage to step over her daunting threshold. He walked by her creamy polished walls every steamy California morning on his way to work. Often, he stopped to admire the glint of the sun’s rays colliding with her reflective window panes. Simply seeing his own silhouette reflected in this magnificent edifice caused tears to pool in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He’d even considered bowing down to Her Majesty in the middle of the bubbling midnight asphalt, but he knew that if he fell on his knees before her, he could never bare to get up again, and he couldn’t afford to miss another shift at the bank.
But today, he wasn’t scheduled to toil at the speckled brown counter of the Jackson County bank. Instead, he woke up an hour after his normal 9 to 5 shift with a fire of determination already ablaze inside his broad chest. Today, he would finally introduce himself to the glorious piece of artwork that stood victoriously above the well-trodden sidewalk, guarding the pedestrians as they trudged faithfully down the cement. He groped the surface of his side table for his eyeglasses, and, after resting their cool wireframes over the crooked bridge of his nose, he slid his boney knuckles under the pillow, resurfacing with the ticket he had purchased the night before.
It wasn’t that he felt threatened by her, but rather, he knew that once he stepped inside of her grand front entrance, the allure of the secrets buried inside would cease to exist. He feared that the mysteries she sheltered were what kept him drawn to her beauty like a bachelor’s wandering eyes to the bare thighs of a younger woman across the bar. He didn’t want to ruin the magical obscurity if it came at the cost of his attraction. He needed her more than she needed him. He needed a sturdy grip, a savior to hold him above the roaring tides. His parents departed for their eternal home a decade ago, leaving him here to toil in this wasteland, alone. Not even the man who worked beside him at the bank knew his name. Alone. Seventy-four years old and not even a wife to show for it. Without her, he would be no one. Alone, like a single drop in a vast ocean. She kept him firmly planted in reality; a sturdy oak rooted in the soil; a man with a face and a purpose. As long as he had her, he would never be alone.
This mindset shifted though when last night, on his way home from work, he caught a glimpse of a security guard ushering a suited businessman through the side door. The businessman was clutching a rectangular object, draped with an off-white strip of canvas. It must have been framed, the man thought, because a polyurethaned corner peeked out slightly from underneath the tarp and gleamed in the dim yellow lights of the streetlamps that lined the road. The scene sparked a newfound curiosity in the man. If only he could catch a glimpse of the work beneath the canvas, he would be satisfied. As he contemplated, a light flicked on in the window beside the door they had just entered. The man slunk along through the dewey grass below the windowsill, careful not to leave any oily fingerprints on the marble wall. He couldn’t bear to disrupt her elegance. Beyond the glass, the professionally clad man swept his hand lengthwise across the frame, pulling the sheet from its resting place atop the canvas and sweeping it to the floor in one gentle motion. He squinted, trying to make sense of the blurred colors that danced across the canvas, but his eyes had simply seen too many years. It didn’t matter what he could or couldn’t see though, because he was already certain that the painting underneath that piece of cloth was a work of the gods. He could only assume that everything inside this ethereal being must be of their celestial standards. With his nose pressed against the window so that the tip pointed heavenward towards the constellations above, like an eager child peering at vibrantly colored candies through a shop window, the man struggled to tear his gaze away from the scene before him. He felt like he was betraying his one true love. It was the building herself that captivated his heart, not the fine art she protected within her motherly bosom. Disturbed by his momentary lapse in rational judgement, he silently crawled back over to the front door on his aching knees and pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a low hanging branch dipping down from one of the trees that lined the pathway to the front door of the museum. As his exhausted lungs struggled to take in gulps of dry California air, a neon orange flyer tacked to the trunk of the old oak with a rusted nail caught his attention. It’s garish appearance seemed to litter the picturesque view of the facade, so much so that animosity instantly boiled up into his throat. Without thinking, the man’s hand reached up and ripped the paper down from the tree, sending a chunk of the bark tumbling to the perfectly manicured lawn below. He gripped both the left and right edge of the paper, hands poised in the perfect position to reduce it into a pile of incomprehensible letters and words floating freely, void of any meaning. He jerked his left hand back with vengeance, initiating the first tear, but stopped abruptly when a phrase centered on the paper seemed to jump off the page: “Come see our new exhibit debuting on July 6th! Featuring the famous Kenzie painting!” Warmth spread like the first scalding bite of soup from his chest to his stomach. Witnessing its arrival to the museum was no coincidence. This was fated to happen. It was his destiny. With this thought, a spark of realization flickered in his chest. The Kenzie painting was not a separate entity, but rather a part of her brilliance. Besides, it isn’t the material beauty of her exterior that makes a woman marvelous, but the contents of her interior that really allow her stand out in a crowd, or so he’d heard, of course. The man knew that it was time for him to become acquainted with the most intimate parts of his most spectacular flame. He was suddenly compelled by the desperate need to see that painting for himself. It was her soul, and by extension, his heart.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?” her caramelized customer service voice reverberated off the walls.
His gaze was fixated on the grand staircase that was situated behind the receptionist’s beehive which crouched on top of her head like a domesticated squirrel. He’d seen many of those bushy tailed vermin scampering from trunk to trunk on his way here. He was disgusted by the way they ran about, frantic with terror, like how his mother used to sprint to the kitchen when the fire alarms screamed every time she tried to bake. The episodes always ended with a smoke filled kitchen and a pan of charred to a crisp cookies dumped in the sink. Their anxiety disgusted him, just like his mother’s had. The only way to enjoy life was slowly, like how he enjoyed her now, tracing her curves with his hungry eyes. He sighed as his eyes followed the winding steps up in a delicate spiral towards the towering marble ceilings. Before the two collided, the stairway abruptly stopped where it met the landing of a second floor balcony which overlooked the massive front door. The woman who greeted him seemed out of place. Her pilled sweater starkly contrasted against the elegance of the entryway. His stomach lurched when he looked at her sagging cheek bones and phony smile. He would sacrifice everything he had in order to study the inner workings of this masterpiece everyday, but from the forced cordiality in her voice and the open book resting on her knees, he knew that the old woman didn’t hold the same sentiments that he did. Jealousy coursed through his bloodstream as he ruminated on her blatant insolence. What a blessing it was to simply be standing here in the very heart of this magnificent creature, and she treated it like a lesson in watching paint dry. And he had to slave away for government officials who couldn’t even call him by his first name! How selfish. How ignorant. How-
“Sir!”
He was unfazed by the annoyance that tainted her raspy interjection. Obviously, she had given up on the public servant charade with him, not that it had worked to begin with. He’d seen right through the repulsive theatrical game before she even opened her mouth. His gaze slowly floated down from the upper level of the building, taking his time to soak in the scenery once more before coming to rest on her frowning eyebrows. If he were still a child, he would have poked his tongue out at her in defiance, but he was too old for those silly games now.
She cleared her throat. “May I help you, or are you just here to block my view of the door?”
Her authenticity had returned, and with it, her crabby attitude. He could sympathize with her to an extent. Nobody over seventy would voluntarily choose to work a day job if they had the means to lay on their couch in a fluffy robe all day. He felt a certain amount of disdain for the human race during his seemingly endless shifts at the bank. He decided to return the favor of forced kindness as a sort of apology, pulling his thin lips back and baring his yellowed chipped canines.
“How kind of you to ask.” He rummaged around in his satchel that, up until that point, hung limply against his right hip. His hands emerged clutching an empty gum wrapper, a crumpled photo of his late father, and the ticket. Seeing it again made his heart leap. He slapped it flat on the counter in front of the gnarled woman, then slid his hand off to reveal the swirling design that was printed on the front. She used her long finger nail to pry the corner of the ticket up, then held it up to the scanner beside her computer. The scanner beeped, signaling that his ticket was valid. She moved the stub to the slit on the top of the paper shredder.
“Wait!” He threw himself over the counter and ripped the ticket from between her pruney fingers.
“God, don’t get your panties in a twist!” Splittle flew from her thin lips as she chastised him. Then, returning her attention to her lap, she dismissed him with the obnoxious flip of a yellowed page.
He readjusted the strap of his satchel and smoothed down the front of his tweed blazer. “Ma’am I still have one question.”
Her head remained frozen in place, only her foggy grey eyes glared over the top of her purple rimmed spectacles, assaulting him with their ferocity. “Yes?”
“Where is your newest exhibit located?”
“Which one?” She had returned her focus to the words before her. Her voice didn’t even contain a hint of interest in their conversation. He marvelled at how she could hold her words at such a constant level of monotony, like a professor well versed in the art of the lecture drone. Perhaps she’d been one in a past life, in a prehistoric time. He couldn’t convince himself that they were products of the same generation. He couldn’t bear the thought of being associated with people like her.
“The one with the Kenzie painting?”
“Did your homework, huh? Around the corner and to the right, all the way at the end of the hallway.”
“Thank you.”
She only grunted in response, flipping to the next page. When he got farther down the hallway, he heard her mumble “Thank God,” blowing a fast breathy snort out of her nostrils to punctuate her anything but to herself remark. He pretended not to hear her.
His hands shook as he slowly placed one loafer deliberately in front of the other, over and over until he reached the end of the hallway. To his right there was a set of towering glass doors adorned with golden handles. He reached out to caress their cold, smooth surface. Then, with a sudden urgency, he leaned into the door, forcing it open. A gust of air swept through the space, causing the wisps of hair that bordered the security guard’s sullen expression to shudder in its presence.
“Afternoon, Ma’am,” he said loudly. He wanted the other patrons to know he had arrived, to be aware of his mighty masculine power that seemed to fill the room around them. This was his girl they were studying with awe filled eyes. A wave of pride surged through his veins, and he wanted them to notice. Then, he nodded to the security guard to punctuate his point as he stepped over the threshold and let the door fall shut behind him.
She said nothing in response, only pointed to a framed sign beside her head that read, “Quiet Please: patrons are enjoying the artwork.” His face burned red; he should have known better. This was a place to be revered, like the mighty cross that stood at the front of a congregation. What brought upon even more shame was the fact that she had witnessed his obtuseness. He mouthed, “I’m sorry” to the security guard, then hurried farther down the hallway, his eyes trained on the wooden floor, in order to escape his own embarrassment.
When his cheeks had finally cooled, he allowed himself to glance around the room. A few other visitors wandered from painting to painting, pausing to read the descriptions that were displayed below each piece. A couple of visitors sat, one leg crossed over the other, on the benches that were methodically placed in a straight line every few feet down the center of the room. The layout reminded him of a fast paced highway, hashes separating the southbound travellers from the northbound, blurred sports cars flying past his old junky pickup, always in a hurry to get to where they are going. He smiled to himself, recognizing the juxtaposition. Outside, the world moved with an ever present urgency, but here, nestled in the loving arms of his darling, he felt the metronome of time retard as the space between the clicks grew longer with each breath he took.
“Excuse me,” a younger woman said behind him. The man took a step forward to give her more room. He barely even noticed the intermingling of their arm hair as she squeezed between him and the wall; he was too entranced by the atmosphere surrounding him to be bothered with any distractions.
“I just wanted to get a closer look at this new painting,” she whispered. “Even the New York Times praised William Kenzie for this piece. Said it was a work of pure genius.”
His ears perked up at the mention of that name. That painting was the sole reason he was here. He couldn’t exactly articulate the feeling, but he knew that it was made for him. Each brushstroke held a message only he could decipher. And it was right behind him. He turned around. His anxious eyes were met with a burst of dynamic colors. They combined in a harmonious blend to depict a snapshot that had many times permeated his most precious dreams. It was the pristine exterior that he worshiped daily, and the building licked by the devious tongues of thousands of flames in his nightmares. It was a portrait of this heavenly world that he stood inside of now, mouth hanging agape in awe: a magnificent rendering of his lover. Tears collected in the corners of his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed the lump in his throat to keep them from rolling down his cheeks.
He had to leave quickly to avoid yet another embarrassing mishap. He refused to cry in public, no matter how beautiful she was. It is just not something a man does. He was too old for crying anyway. He silently castigated himself for his inability to control his emotions in the midst of the Kenzie painting.
He knew that he couldn’t return to the famous painting without losing his dignity, so he settled for wandering the halls instead. He trekked up and down for hours, studying the beauty of her inner workings. But still, nothing compared to the Kenzie painting. To him, it was the most breathtaking image in the world. At seven, the intercom system announced that the museum was closing, that all visitors may exit through the front doors, and to have a good night. The message was punctuated by a crackling sound, like a bag of chips crushed near the microphone that the invisible voice was speaking into. He left reluctantly, mentally promising the walls that he would be back soon, and just to prove it, he bought a ticket for the next day before he walked through the imposing front doors once more.
On his way home, he walked past a couple having a picnic in the park. Normally, he’d look away, offering them privacy from his outsider eyes, but today he didn’t. He watched as they delicately fed each other gleaming purple grapes and laughed at jokes that he couldn’t hear. If only he could find a love like that: one with no need to hide from others, no reason to fantasize about what they could have in secret. He wanted to be free to love however he wanted, and whoever he wanted, all out in the open. He glanced over his shoulder once more before rounding the corner, just in time to see the couple lean their heads together to share a passionate kiss, and behind them, the tallest marble tower of the museum stood sparkling in the purple sunset sky.
The man was standing on the front steps outside of the museum when the janitor unlocked it precisely at 8:59 the next morning. After he crossed through the double doors and stepped into the stately entryway, he wasted no time shoving his ticket into the hands of the cranky receptionist who scanned it under the glowing red beam of light that illuminated the right side of her desk. He snatched the ticket from her shrivelled fingers without even muttering a simple “thank you” and practically jogged down the hallway to the exhibit room. Once he stepped into the exhibit, his body was suddenly filled with a sense of peace. He briefly paused, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of lavender that filled the small space. So this is what being in love feels like, he thought. When the only place that feels like home is in the arms of the one you love. He opened his eyes again, letting the tension in his shoulders seep out with another deep inhale and exhale. In front of the painting was a bench, and the man sat down on it. Today, he decided, he would sit here until every inch of the painting was burned into his mind. He would sit here until, even with his eyes closed, he could still see the swirling brush strokes dancing across the back of his eyelids. He needed to know why he felt as though this painting was a piece of him, and this was the only way he knew how to find out.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a woman whispered, pulling him from his trance. She confidently strode towards him and sat down on the bench beside him, crossing her legs. Then, she pulled a pad of paper from her purse and began feverishly scribbling down notes in illegible cursive. Paranoia crept into his brain without warning. Was she taking notes on his painting? Or him?
The feeling of being watched scurried up his spine until he couldn’t handle the heat any longer and blurted, “What are you writing?”
She scratched a few more pencil marks onto the paper before looking up from her work. “Just some observations. I’m an art critic, you know. I know more about this place than the tour guides who work here.” She paused to glance around the room, then stopped when her gaze fell upon a painting that hung directly across from the Kenzie piece.
“Like that painting.” She pointed. “Many don’t know this fact, but Kenzie told me himself that the small scratches in the corner are from his cat walking across the canvas with muddy paws and are not actually intentional brush strokes. He even asked me not to publish that quote on my blog because he didn’t want the mistake to get out.”
“Oh.” His cheeks burned again. When others pointed out his ignorance, it always made him feel stupid, like an uneducated child. He hated children for that sole reason, and now she seemed to imply that he was acting exactly like one. The feeling made his stomach lurch with animosity. Who did this woman think she was anyway? Simply the way she held herself seemed to suggest that believed she owed this painting or the whole exhibit or maybe even the whole museum. This was his lover. Suddenly, her presence this close to him was too much to tolerate. Something more bitter than anger churned through his veins. It was jealousy and it scalded his insides like a bitch. He cleared his throat before he spoke again through clenched teeth.
“Do you think you could find another bench?”
“Why? Is this one yours?” She let out a short giggle, but he didn’t think her sarcasm was very funny. He was here first. She should be able to respect that. Realizing the seriousness of his request, the smile drained from the woman’s face.
“But really, I will only be here a few more minutes, then I’ll be out of your hair.” She spoke sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she said the word ‘hair’.
He scoffed at her response, but left it at that. The flagrancy of her irritation with his request sat between them and reminded him of one of those yippy puppies that requires constant attention. He tried to ignore the incessantly increasing tension anyway. Crossing his arms over his chest, he began to refocus his thoughts on the beauty of the piece before him, but he couldn’t pull his mind away from the distracting tap of her pencil against her notepad or the squishy sound of her molars sinking into the pink gum in her mouth or the way she inhaled and exhaled through her nose eliciting a snotty gurgling sound with each breath. He scooted a little closer to his left in order to get as far away from her as possible while still remaining on the bench. It did nothing to alleviate his annoyance. He gave in to watching the seconds tick past on the clock that hung beside this painting near the exhibit exit. After the red clock hand had completed two revolutions, he couldn’t wait patiently any longer.
“It has been a few minutes,” he announced with a hint of cynicism dripping from his words. A few of the patrons glanced over in his direction to see what the disturbance was about, but the woman completely ignored him. She didn’t even flinch. Her pencil just continued moving across her pad without even the slightest bit of hesitation. He stared daggers at her. From behind, a rough hand gripped his frail, boney shoulder.
“Please!” a gruff voice growled behind them in a harsh whisper. “Quiet in the exhibits.”
He could see a sparkle of humor flash in the woman’s eyes, and he instantly knew he’d made a wrong move. He had allowed her to surpass him in their little mind game.
“Sorry ma’am. It’s just that- that, well this woman here is disrupting my enjoyment of the exhibit.” He jabbed his thumb in her direction.
The security guard grunted. “Well, you’re disrupting everyone else’s, so you two kids need to figure it out.” Then she lumbered away, back to her post at the door. He could see other visitors laughing, desperately trying to hide their amusement behind hands that covered their smiling mouths. The irreverence towards him and this opulent building drove his patience for everyone closer to the edge.
The woman’s smirk indicated that he had given up another point to her. She returned victoriously to her scribbles and he returned his eyes to the artwork before him in defeat. He took a few deep breaths to quiet the raging fire inside of him. What was it about this woman that caused him to completely lose his ability to be civil? He knew that if he wanted to stay, he needed to keep his anger in check. After a few moments, he was able to successfully harness his own emotions towards the art critic and quiet his mind enough to study the piece. It was hard to focus on one aspect of the painting, he thought, because, while the art museum was the focal point, one could only see it if they were looking at the big picture. Up close, he could only see streaks of rainbow brush strokes that somehow ultimately depicted a white building. He let his gaze wander around the painting, until a disruption in the canvas captured his attention, something he hadn’t noticed yesterday. It was a man standing to the left of the building, lovingly gazing up at its towering roman-esque pillars from the sidewalk. The man in the painting wore the same brown loafers and the same tweed blazer that he wore now. His comb over stuck up slightly in the gust of dry heat that was illustrated by a feathered loop-di-loop of white paint. That man, he decided instantly, was him.
Her throaty cough pulled him from his shocked stupor. The reminder that she was still beside him instantly ignited his temper once more. He shot her another angry sideways glance, but she didn’t notice because her phone chimed loudly, pulling her attention from his scowling countenance. The combination of her phone’s ear splitting rings echoing around the marble room and it’s metallic buzzing against the bench prompted more threatening looks from the security guard. He couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.
“Could you seriously be less courteous? Some people are here to enjoy the art!”
The art critic dug it out quickly from the bottom of her purse and looked at the caller I.D. on the front, unfazed by his outburst.
“Oh shit, I have to take this.” With that, she ran out of the gallery. Before the door closed completely, he heard her answer her phone with, “What Marvin?” Then, she was gone. Again, he felt a familiar hand fall on his shoulder.
“Out with you too.”
The man struggled to pull his shoulder from her grip, but her meaty hand firmly clasped onto him, so much so that he almost felt as thought the tips of her fingers had curled underneath his clavicle. Maybe, he thought, she was picturing his collarbone as the handle to her motorbike that she had no doubt parked out back. She just seemed like that kind of girl.
“Why?” he argued. “I wasn’t the one bothering anyone.”
“Oh, but you were.”
He came up with more excuses, listing them off one by one as they walked, but she wouldn’t hear it. She escorted him all the way to the front door, opening it for him when they arrived.
“You’re banned for the rest of the day. Don’t come back tomorrow either, unless you can keep your emotions under control.” Then she slammed the door shut, and he was left staring at the outside of the building once again.
But he couldn’t leave. It would have felt like he was turning his back on the only one who truly understood him. So he didn’t. The man strode over to the tree that he had used to pull himself from the ground the first night he saw the Kenzie painting. Resting his spine against its strong trunk, he slid down until the seat of his khakis rested against the soil beneath the oak’s splayed out branches. And he sat there all day, until the marshmallow clouds blew over the horizon and were replaced with thousands of glittering stars. He revelled in the towering majesty of the museum until the lights in the windows blinked out and all that was left was the hum of the AC unit.
When he awoke the next morning, the guard was standing above him, her hands resting on her hip bones, supporting a roll of skin that rested on top of her pointers and thumbs.
“Are you wanting in?”
His bones creaked as he struggled to his knees; he was too old to sleep on the ground. The woman must have noticed his struggle because she moved closer to him, sliding her meaty fingers under his armpits and hoisting him to his feet. He slid his palm over his thinning hair, wiping the drops of dew from the strands.
“That would be nice,” he said, trying to quickly replace his groggy squint with a sincere smile. He didn’t want a repeat of yesterday, and that meant starting the morning on the right foot with this guard.
“Alright, this way. But remember, this is your last chance.”
“I promise.” He would do or say anything to see that painting again. The portrait of his secret affair, finally out in the open, void of any judgment. His love, the most beautiful work of art to grace the public’s eyes, was finally his to admire aloud.
No other patrons had arrived yet. The quiet in the room lulled him into a sense of serenity only to be occasionally disturbed by the heavy breathing of the guard standing sentinel still at the door, watching him. It was so silent, he could almost feel the subtle seductive whispers of the building blowing across his skin. She was truly alive. His meditative state was undisturbed until a steady buzzing noise replaced the luscious caress of his lover’s secret musings. At first it was as unnoticeable as the small fan that he kept blowing at night to fill his bedroom with white noise. But quickly, the sound increased to a volume that was unbearable. It filled his consciousness until the hum was all that he could think about. He swatted at his ears, trying to ward off the intruder, but it was no use. The buzzing persisted. He stood up, and paced around the bench. He walked to the opposite wall and back. He sat on the floor in front of the bench. But nothing helped. The buzzing remained.
What was this noise? Was it dangerous? He stood and shuffled closer to his painting, examining it for any threats that could be lurking around its framed edges. He glanced back at the door to see if it was the guard’s radio, but the woman was no longer there. He briefly considered the possibility that she had stepped out to attend to other duties, then returned his attention to the problem at hand. Perhaps, the sound was coming from inside the wall? He placed his head against the smooth surface beside the painting, looking at its colorful surface from the side, marvelling at the dips and curves of the paints against the canvas. He imagined how Kenzie ran his brush over the smooth surface, tainting it with big wet globs of paint. This new perspective had a calming effect on him, like the ripples of a bathmat against bare feet, hitting the precise spots of tension.
As he settled back down onto the bench, buzzing dulled, a flash of black across the scene caught his attention. He had caught the culprit at last. The fly delicately landed on the mahogany frame of the painting, right beside where he permanently gazed lovingly at the museum. Jealousy ignited once again in his chest, catching him off guard. He moved forward again, placing his eyes level with the fly who cautiously cleaned her wings with her thread like arms. He cupped his hands together, intent on catching her without injuring the frame or the painting, and held them centimeters from where she bathed. But he stopped. Her sleek obsidian body was precisely the same shade of black as the shoes that adorned the man’s feet in the painting. Her body even glistened with a dewy shine in the same way that the paint looked almost like it still wasn’t dry on the canvas. But they weren’t just any kind of shoes. They were cowboy boots, and they travelled up the man’s leg all the way to the middle of his shin where they met the weathered blue of his jeans. Farther up his body, a bolo tie hung from his slender neck, its long tails blowing slightly in the gust of dry heat that was illustrated by a feathered loop-di-loop of white paint. This man was not him.
He abandoned the fly, its annoying presence completely forgotten. The man dropped his hands from where they were frozen between his chest and the frame. Stepping back, he took one last look at the painting, turned, and walked out the glass doors of the exhibit.
“Leaving so soon?” The security guard asked him as they passed each other in the hall. He presumed that she was headed back to her post in preparation for the inevitable rush of visitors who would arrive soon.
“Yes, ma’am.” He continued walking past her, not even pausing when she spoke again.
“Why? Don’t like what you see anymore? Found something better?” Her last question was louder, like she had turned so that she could yell towards him instead of in the opposite direction. He simply shook his head back and forth, too broken to answer out loud.
Comments