A bunch of dark clouds moved over the sun as I entered the gallery, dimming its vast interior. Foot traffic was light though, the air stale from disuse. A deputy docent was the only soul I encountered as I hurried to Benton’s Persephone.
I stared up at the colorful painting, smiling at the curves of the young woman’s body, at the way her hair curled round her ear as she reclined by the water, and at the man leering at her. If the myth had continued on another canvas, he would chase and subdue her, claiming her for his bride.