When Lana gave her talks to two or three people instead of a dozen or more, she stammered. Large groups were a blur, and she could monologue about art and artifacts without interrupting herself. In smaller groups, she saw their faces. The man was leering, the woman was staring, and their eyes made her shoulders ache.
“Take a closer look at this eighteenth, I mean sixteenth century vase,” she said, hoping to draw their attention. The couple turned their faces toward the milk-white vessel, though they seemed to ignore her explanation of its significance. Lana crossed her arms in front of her.
“How long have you been working in the museum?” the man interrupted.
Lana shook her head. The question made no sense to her, and the woman was still staring.
“Save all questions for the end,” she said, staring back until the woman crossed her arms, too.
Post Modern Existential Horror 