open - gotta, gotta be down;

[style=width: 400px; background-color: #f9f8f8; overflow: auto; font: 10px Tahoma; padding: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; text-align: justify; color: 393939; opacity: 0.7; -moz-opacity: 0.7; ]Oh dear, Juliet thought as she slowed to a stop. She stretched out her hand and opened it up, showing her palm to the sky. Yes, she thought as a tiny rain drop landed on her hand. It's raining. That wasn't good. At the moment, she was wearing her favourite white poncho. If she got it wet, she'd have to dry it. And if she had to dry it, she wouldn't be able to wear it tomorrow. She was planning on visiting Cody wearing her favourite clothes. She hadn't seen him in a long time, and she wanted to show up looking good. After all, Cody was her beloved brother. Juliet had to get under cover, and fast. It looked like the rain was going to start coming down in buckets.

She began to run, making sure she didn't drop her bag. The beige-coloured bag was carrying most of her art supplies that she always brought to and from UCLA, since she was an art professor there. It wouldn't do to get them wet. Actually, it wouldn't do to get her bag wet, either. That would be terribly uncomfortable, carrying a wet bag that slapped itself against your waist every time you took one step. She cringed at the thought of it. No, she wasn't one of those self-concious freaks who went crazy over their looks, but she wasn't particularly fond of being wet. In her rush, she accidentally ran into a puddle that splashed both her and a few people around her.

"Sorry!" she called over to them, not stopping to properly apologize. It didn't matter, since they were running around too. The rain was coming down more fiercely now, and she was getting soaked. Her breathing turned into panting as she continued to run down the wet, slippery side walk. Around her, people were also running for shelter: getting into their cars, under trees, or taking shelter inside a nearby shop. She wasn't about to walk into any random shop on the side walk. No, there was a place that she knew of that she wanted to go, and since it was raining, now would be the perfect time for it. Her dark red eyes scanned her surroundings. She was almost there. She could tell from the familiar landmarks that surrounded the place. That particular tree, the clothing shop beside it...

She slowed down, and began to walk. There it is, she thought. Wayward Art Gallery. It was her favourite place to go to whenever she was down town, and was arguably her favourite place in all of Los Angeles. The familiar beige-coloured bricks, the large sign above the door that spelled out Wayward Art Gallery in large, bold block letters. She wasted no time in getting inside, and the smell of paper wafted around her. The smell of art. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes as she was encompassed in a moment of complete bliss. This only lasted a few moments, as she opened her eyes and walked around, admiring the art that hung on the white walls. Since she was hear, she might as well enjoy herself. Plus, she wasn't getting wet from the rain. It was like killing to birds with one stone.

Clutching her bag close to her, her legs took her around the gallery, her eyes scanning over the art that hung on the walls. Occasionally, she would stop to admire a particular piece of art that she thought looked beautiful and worthy of inspiration, and then she would move on to the next piece of art. This cycle would repeat, and she would often find herself wandering the gallery for hours. This wasn't very healthy for her wallet, but to her, it was definitely worth it. Her wet brown boots that were glossy because of the rain squeaked every few steps, and she looked up to see if she was bothering anybody. Nobody in particular was looking at her, so she breathed a sigh of relief and worked on walking without making any sounds.

"What kind of witchcraft is this?"

Juliet stopped in her tracks, wondering who would say something like that in an art gallery. The voice was young; perhaps around the same age as Juliet. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Obviously this person didn't appreciate art very much. Or maybe the statement was actually a compliment. She scouted the area, looking for anybody that might be nearby. No, there wasn't anybody except for a young man with black hair, who was standing in front of a painting. The man who made the comment. Her maroon eyes quickly glanced up at the painting that he was looking at. It was an abstract painting. She then glanced back at the young man, a bit of understanding in her eyes. It was true that many young people these days didn't really get the meaning behind abstract art. That was understandable. She used to think it was weird, too. She recognized the painting, as well. It was painted by one of her many favourite artists.

She watched with a new-found interest as the man observed the painting. First he leaned in a bit, probably looking at the fine strokes that was hard to see from afar. Then he leaned out and his eyes widened, his mouth making the shape of an O. What an interesting character, she thought to herself, stifling a giggle.

"It's not witchcraft," she said quietly, walking towards the man and the painting. Obviously the man hadn't meant what he said, but she still felt the need to say it. Her tiny footsteps echoed through the empty part of the gallery that was occupied only by Juliet and the young man. "This painting was created by a man who was suffering from great depression at the time," she explained. "Look at these strokes." She pointed to the sharp, articulated strokes that decorated the painting. "This most likely represents anger." She said most likely because she wasn't very sure herself; she would have liked to ask the painter himself about his feelings on the painting, but that was near impossible, since he lived very far away. She didn't have the time or the money. "Now look at these ones," she pointed out the soft, curving lines that danced around the sharp strokes. It almost looked like an object, but then it was covered in colours of different sorts. The lines drooped downwards, and those lines were different shades of blue and purple: cool colours that usually represented sadness. "The man who painted this obviously had conflicting feelings," she concluded, not even looking at the man. She was paying more attention to the painting.

"Just," she started, constructing her sentence inside her head. "Just don't say those kinds of things in an art gallery. Some people are sensitive to that sort of thing." You went to an art gallery to appreciate art, not insult it.[/style]