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Dorian Gray ’s story

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Look well into the eyes of Dorian Gray…

I grew weary from reading so many stories at the library yesterday, so I spent some time at the Metropolitan Museum, roaming around the empty rooms in a quiet Stella McCartney lace panel dress, trying my best not to disturb the people in the paintings. The halls, the benches, the moulding — they all hushed, so that I could only hear the sound of each painting reverberating the unpopulated rooms.

“A great picture draws you in, doesn’t it?”

I had not realised he was there until he spoke — this pale young man, in a Balenciaga ensemble. He looked as beautiful as a woman, with skin untainted by the wreckage of old age.

“Sure, but only when it speaks to you.”

He smiled and caught my gaze with eyes that had seen everything, had had everything and were now burdened with ennui. We stayed like this for a while, looking into each other’s eyes. I thought this beautiful creature was enamoured by me and I grew annoyed at having lost the invisibility trait I had found in this museum.

As his eyes grew persistent, obsessive and searching, I realised that he wasn’t looking at me; he was only looking at his own reflection in my eyes. I knew it was bad for him, but I indulged him by keeping his gaze a bit longer than I had wanted.

Story credits: Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray; Image via Balenciaga.

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