Art

 The darkness spread slowly but surely. It enveloped every grocery store and shushed every dinner table. It blanketed the city, obscuring all notions of a future or a past.

 The art museum was just one stop on its path from the missile to the suburbs. Some died in the explosions, more were injured; most were fine. The lights were out, but they’d come back soon. A couple of days was the longest they’d been out before. Last time, it was only a matter of minutes.

 Still, the tour guide led his group down a hallway, a flight of stairs, another hallway. This was the procedure, baked into him by hours of training. The group followed him past an out-of-order toilet, noses and breaths held. An old woman cursed and promptly apologized. A kindergartener giggled.

 One after another, the museumgoers pushed their way through a revolving door, two people crammed in each segment. Their fingers left marks on the glass, but as much as they willed the door to move, it slowed to their touch. Eventually, they stopped pushing and let the door set their pace. The war taught them to be patient, grateful.

 Once all were through, the tour guide ushered them to sit down. In a clumsy circle, they sat, murmuring to each other. A woman offered her phone flashlight, but the tour guide declined. “You might need that later,” he advised.

 “I guess. But what do we do now?”

 The tour guide smiled in the dark. “I would tell you to close your eyes, but, well…” There was a collective groan. “Take a deep breath. In your nose, out your mouth. On one—” The group complied reluctantly. “Now take your hand and feel the tiles here, like so.” He extended his arm, tracing the structure of the floor with the care of a painter’s brush. “Go ahead.”

 One after another, the museumgoers reached out. Their fingers—some quivering, most fine—traced the grooves of the tiles. There they sat until the lights returned—enjoying art in the dark.