Chapter 1: The broken vase

You have been standing in the same spot for probably not as long as it feels. Why can't you bring yourself to move past the door frame into the ambient light beyond? You lean your head from side to side, and shake your hands at the wrist so that your fingers limply dangle, like a fighter about to enter the ring. The next moment, you reach for the cold bronze of the handle and push it and yourself into the uncertainty beyond.

You have to push past group after group of people eying you with curiosity (and some with disdain just to maintain their illusion of self-importance) and fingering long-stemmed wine glasses before you reach the central room of the old house. There, Sylvia acts delighted to see you in her over-exaggerated way.

"You made it! I was beginning to worry, to tell the truth. How wretched of you to leave us wondering like that!" she croons, sloshing wine about in her glass as she turns this way and that to let those around her get a good look at her playfully scolding expression. When she faces you again, you get the impression that the wine is a strategy to combat the jealousy. A tall man wearing an expensive suit steps forward and extends a hand to you, making you feel mostly self-conscious that you are under-dressed. You shake his hand purposefully, anticipating the usual comment about the confidence you exude, but he seems unable to be more impressed than he already is.

"I am Trenton Gallagher." You suppress a less-than-flattering facial expression at his pretentious-sounding name because KC isn't here...and there is that little matter of needing to impress this man for the sake of your livelihood. "You must be the artist of the hour."
"I suppose you could say that," you respond with more ease than you feel, "although my photos are not the only ones on display tonight."
"No need to be modest, my friend." He puts an arm around your shoulders and you are suddenly best buds. "It's perfectly clear who the star of this exhibit is!" He gently pushes you towards other well-dressed people who are gathered like so many stunning planets orbiting around the gravitational pull of Trenton. "This is Cecil, my wife, and our daughter Jacquelyn." You reach out your hand to both, but only get frigid, limp fingers in return, which you awkwardly give a little shake. "This is my associate, Halbert Neil, with whom your agent spoke on the phone." Barely quelling the laugh that rises in your throat at the word "agent" (wait until you tell KC), you manage to give a professional nod in Hal's direction. Hal; can I call you Hal? You say inwardly. "Hal" is more plump than Trenton and gives a jolly chuckle as if to confirm this fact.
"My boy, what a delight to meet you!"
"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Neil. My agent and I," a laugh catches in your throat like a hiccup and you cough into your sleeve before continuing, "are grateful for this opportunity to showcase my work."
"Oh, please call me Hal," he counters. To hide your widening eyes, you quickly offer,
"How did you find out about me?" Trenton turns away momentarily to signal a waiter dressed neatly in all black to bring him another drink. You notice the crisp white towel hanging from his arm. Where AM I?
"I have a niece who goes to school at the University. She saw your work in the literary magazine and fell in love with it. She knew I was looking to promote young artists in the local community so she suggested you."
"Who is your niece? Maybe I know her."
"I doubt you do," Hal chuckles, "her parents keep her under lock and key. But it's Angela. Angela Snow."
"Well, what picture did Ms. Snow see? I've submitted several to the Anthem."
"It was the photograph of the African-American street child," he describes with great sincerity and heaviness. Oh, Jada. My neighbor's kid. But you don't tell Hal that.
"Ah."
"I would love to walk about with you and listen to you talk about your work, if you would be so kind." You half expect him to take your arm and let you escort him, but he takes his wife's hand instead and suddenly, you have an entourage. Sylvia is not to be left behind, but you do notice her tap her glass for a re-fill.
"This is my wife, Emily." Hal gestures towards the woman on his right and you feel somewhat comforted by the soft expression she carries gracefully across her petite features. She leans across her husband's ample belly to give you a genuine handshake and a smile; you start to feel tension easing off of your shoulders.

As you walk towards the first photograph of the exhibit, trailing socialites, you are given a moment of silence to collect yourself...or rather, wrack your brain. You have never in your life had to explain your photographs to anyone other than a college friend over your third Guinness. And even then, that comes to more mindless babbling than what could be considered an "explanation." What on earth does an "artist" say about their own "work"?

The group comes to a stop before a black-and-white still of a old chapel door. They circle around, their faces turned gently towards you like flowers readying themselves to soak up the sunlight. You begin to stammer.
"Well, uh, I decided to start with this one because it is my favorite." Hal leans towards you expectantly while Emily looks directly at the picture, her head cocked slightly to one side. "When I first saw it, it caught my attention so I...." you clear your throat, "took a picture of it." The silence that follows indicates to the confused group that you are finished. Their bafflement is in-concealable.
"What about it was so striking?" Hal leads you encouragingly, like a master coaxing his dog to the food bowl. You clear your throat once again. It is relief, not panic, you feel when the fire alarm suddenly starts beeping insistently over the classical music and murmuring chatter of the gathered crowd. There are a few shrieks of surprise, and the building begins to empty onto the lawn. Hal gives you a shrug as he moves towards the door; you follow, but your nerves get the better of you for the first time and you turn too quickly, promptly knocking an expensive, hand-blown glass vase, which teeters in slow motion before proceeding to spread itself in tiny shards across the newly-waxed wooden floors. You hang back for only a moment, so that you find yourself on a section of lawn far removed from Trenton and company, all sparkles, black ties and startled women.

What happens next?

A. You wait until the fire-alarm situation is resolved to go back into the exhibit?
B. You slip away to find KC and a nice cold brew?