Rainy days were the worst days to work at the gallery.  Apparently, art historians were required to wear cute heels to work.  I had to awkwardly bunny-walk along the slippery sidewalk in four-inch pumps with an overly large umbrella and an armful of museum records.  I made my way to the main gallery door and no sooner than I got there did the door swing open. 

“Thank you,” I sighed, not bothering to look at my savior.

“Here, let me.  Bad luck, you know,” a deep male voice said matter-of-factly.  The umbrella was pulled away and closed just outside the open door and I was gently pushed inside the vestibule.  The helpful gentleman turned around and I gawked up at him both pleased and stunned to realize who he was.

“Suit and Tie,” as the gallery attendants called him, was looking down on me.  They said the tall, blonde, green-eyed Adonis had been coming to the gallery daily for the past week, always dressed in fitted, modern suits.  His soft grin was debilitating.

“Minerva,” he greeted me with an ardent stare.

“I don’t believe in luck,” I spoke warily.  As far as anyone who had known me after age four was concerned, I was Min Joy Kimbrough.  “How do you know my name?”

“Forgive me, I’m Schuyler.”  He ignored my question and held out his large, pale hand.  I took it with my much smaller brown one, eying him skeptically.  My skepticism was justified; when I took my hand back I felt a nervous spark of energy and the tiniest red box. 

“It’s a pin.  I’ve been trying to give it to you discreetly all week.  I need you to hold it for me for a time and not open it.  Can you promise me that, Minerva?”

“Are you serious right now?” I smirked.

“Yes.  You’re knowledgeable and trustworthy.  This pin will allow you to travel to the past.  You don’t want to do that alone.”

“Hell, no, not as a black woman!” I  laughed.  People had often asked me if I’d like to live in any of the periods I studied.  I’d laughed then as I did now, explaining the politics of brown bodies. 

“Then you’ll promise me you won’t put it on,” he pleadingly urged and took my shoulders, “I will be back to retrieve it.  Don’t tell anyone and don’t give it away.”

“Alright, okay.  Schuyler, is it?  I promise,” I replied.  I tried to be earnest, not condescending.  Suddenly, I was in his arms receiving a kiss on my cheek.  

“Thank you, Minerva.  I will return.  Remember what I’ve said.”  With that, he dashed out into the rain and was gone. 

“Hey, my umbrella!  That was monogramed!” I glumly grumbled to myself.  I dropped his precious pin in my crossbody bag and walked to my office. The city really needed to put more into its mental health resources.  Even so, I pondered over Schuyler’s last words and grazed the kiss that still singed my cheek.