His knees protested with every step, but Azie brushed it off. “Bloody hell,” he told himself. “You can do this for Sharon.” Walking down the street, he observed the people around him. Everyone seemed focused. Everyone had somewhere to be. A young couple held hands as they windowshopped. An older woman guided a tiny dog on a leash.
The dog casually relieving itself on a fire hydrant. Tourists posed for selfies. Azie drifted among them unnoticed. No one recognized him. No one gave him a second glance and that gave him a sense of calm. Being famous was enjoyable most of the time. But there were days when he preferred feeling like an ordinary guas.
He walked along Melrose Avenue. A small gallery caught his eye. The front window showcased modern pieces. Yet in the corner sat an older painting. It looked like something from the 1940s. Though it resembled a black and white photograph, it was clearly an oil painting. A woman by a window, raindrops streaking the glass. Sharon would appreciate it.
Azie stopped and leaned closer to the window, narrowing his eyes to study it. There was no price tag, which usually meant one of two things: extremely affordable or extremely costly. From experience, Azie knew it was likely the latter, but that didn’t bother him. He could already imagine Sharon’s reaction.
He pushed open the gallery door. A small bell rang, the kind you usually hear in older shops. Inside, the temperature dropped sharply. The air conditioning was set high, making him shiver briefly. The space was clean and minimal. White walls, a high ceiling, and a polished concrete floor. There were around 10 or 15 paintings inside, each placed under its own light, each standing out like a separate world.
In the middle of the room was a black table with a thick catalog on it, but no staff in sight. Azie stepped in further and glanced around. He wondered where the painting from the window was displayed. Dot on the right. In the corner, he noticed a door labeled private. Azie waited. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Someone was coming down the stairs quickly. A young woman appeared, likely around 25 to 27 years old. She wore a fitted black dress that reached her knees. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun. Her makeup was minimal, though her bright red lipstick stood out. There was a certain confidence in her expression, the kind often seen in people who work closely with the wealthy.
She held an iPad, focused on the screen, not glancing up at first. The woman walked behind the desk, placed the iPad down, and finally looked at Azie. Her eyes moved from his head to his shoes. She noticed his worn t-shirt, old sneakers, and untidy hair, and her expression shifted. Instead of a genuine, professional smile, she offered a polite but strained one, edged with subtle disapproval.
Azie recognized that look. It was the silent message, “Why are you here? This place isn’t meant for you.” But he stayed relaxed. He smiled and lowered his sunglasses slightly so she could see his eyes. The woman spoke. Her tone was pleasant, but there was a clear coolness beneath it. Good afternoon. How may I assist you? Azie kept his friendly expression.
Good afternoon, love. I wanted to ask about the painting in your window, the one with the raindrops. What’s the price? He asked, keeping his voice steady, his Birmingham accent unmistakable, the woman lifted her eyebrows slightly. She had noticed the way Azie spoke. Accent? Foreign? Likely a tourist? She assumed.
She picked up her iPad, tapped a few times, and checked the screen. “Ah, that piece,” she said, her tone now even cooler. “Henry Bowmont, 1947. French impressionism. A very rare work. The previous owner was a French collector, and it came to us from the family.” She paused, watching Azie as if expecting a reaction, but he stayed quiet, waiting.
She continued, “The price is $45,000, but we’re offering a special discount this week. You can get it for $42,000.” She said it casually, as if $42,000 were an everyday expense that Azy’s expression didn’t change. For Sharon, that amount wasn’t unusual. Just last year, she had paid $120,000 to a collector for a sculpture.
But the woman didn’t need to know any of that. Azie simply nodded. I understand. Can I see it? I’d like a closer look. A basic, reasonable request. But something in the woman’s expression shifted. Her eyes tightened, her mouth pressed into a firm line, and the forced smile faded. “Sir,” the woman said.
“And this time there was no politeness at all. That painting is extremely valuable. We only show it to serious buyers. Before that, we require identification and a deposit. $5,000 just for permission to handle it.” The words lingered in the air. a $5,000 deposit just to view the piece. Azie slowly removed his sunglasses. His blue eyes met hers, tired eyes that had spent decades under bright stage lights.
The woman looked uneasy for a moment, but quickly regained her composure. “Look,” she said, her tone firmer now. “We have highly valuable works here. Tourists come in everyday, take photos, want to touch things, but this isn’t a museum. It’s a gallery. We make sales and the kind of clients who can afford that painting are well- definfined.
She paused and stared at Azie. The message was unmistakable. You’re not one of them. Why are you even here? Azie took a slow breath and stayed composed. Sharon often reminded him, “Zussie, don’t waste energy getting angry. The world has its share of foolish people. Don’t argue with them. Just smile and move on.
” But something shifted inside him. Maybe it was knowing that the painting was perfect for Sharon. Maybe it was the woman’s attitude. Maybe he was simply older now and exhausted. But this time, he didn’t feel like walking away. Love, Azie said, still in a calm voice. I just want to see a painting. I have the money. I have a credit card.
If I like it, I’ll buy it. Simple. The woman let out a short, bitter laugh. Sir, the artworks here range from $40,000 to $200,000. They’re not meant for tourists like you. Perhaps there are better options on Rodeo Drive or maybe street artists at Venice Beach. Those are more suitable for people like you.
The words felt sharp. Aussie shook his head. People like me? What do you mean? He asked. She paused briefly, realizing she might have overstepped. But the arrogance returned quickly. What I mean is our usual clients are different corporate collectors, well-known names, serious art buyers, people who understand the worth of these pieces and can afford them. She stressed the last word.
Just then, the gallery door opened and the bell rang again. Azie and the woman turned three people walked in. Two women and one man, all in their 50s, all wearing expensive clothing. One woman held a Chanel bag, the other ames mess. The man wore an Italian suit with a perfectly tied knot. All three kept their sunglasses on indoors.
The young woman’s attitude changed instantly. The cold, dismissive look vanished, replaced with a bright, welcoming smile. “Ah, Mrs. Richardson,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “So lovely to see you again, and Mr. Martinez, welcome.” The three guests moved toward her. Azie stood off to the side, suddenly invisible.
The woman didn’t even look in his direction anymore. She was now fully focused on the new clients. “Jessica,” Mrs. Richardson said, her voice sharp and energetic. Did that Warhol piece you mentioned on the phone arrive? Jessica, the gallery assistant, nodded quickly. Yes, yes, it’s upstairs in the private viewing room. It’s stunning.
I’ll show you. The three visitors started moving toward the staircase. Jessica led them, but just as they reached the bottom step, she paused, turned, and looked at Azie. Sir, Jessica said, her tone suddenly cold again. We won’t be able to assist you today. Perhaps another time. The meaning was obvious. Leave. Azie looked back at her with his blue eyes.
He considered saying something, but what? I’m Azie Osborne. You know that felt silly, unnecessary even. And he wasn’t here to prove anything. He was here for Sharon. Azie gave a gentle smile. I understand, love. Thanks anyway. Jessica didn’t bother to reply. She continued upstairs, followed by the three wealthy clients.
Azie was left alone in the gallery, cold, minimal, surrounded by white walls. The echo of footsteps faded and the sound of passing cars drifted in from outside that he stood there for a moment, then turned, walked to the door, and stepped out. Bloody hell. He thought that you’re 70 years old and still dealing with this kind of nonsense.
He took his phone from his pocket and thought about calling Sharon, but what would he even say? A gallery assistant kicked me out because I looked homeless. Sharon would laugh first, then she’d get upset, and eventually she’d march to the gallery and have that assistant fired. Azie didn’t want that. He just wanted to buy a gift. A simple gift.
He put his phone away. As he walked back toward his car, someone called out from behind him, “Sir, sir, wait.” Azie turned. A man was running out of the gallery. He looked to be in his 60s with silver gray hair and an expensive but relaxed suit. When he reached Azie, he was slightly out of breath.
I’m sorry, the man said, still catching his breath. I had to stop you. I’m Marcus Chun, the gallery owner. He offered his hand. Aussie shook it. Aussie, he said simply. Marcus nodded. I know, he replied quietly. I recognized you. My assistant didn’t, but I did. And I saw everything that happened inside. We have security cameras.
Azie raised his eyebrows. Ah, he said. Marcus continued quickly. Please accept my apology. Jessica is new. Well, not new exactly, but she still hasn’t understood how this business truly works. It isn’t only about money. Art should be accessible to everyone. He paused and looked at Azy’s expression. You wanted to see that painting with the rain, didn’t you? The Henry Bowmont piece.
Beautiful choice for your wife. Ozie was taken aback. Yeah, he said. For Sharon, our anniversary. Marcus smiled. 42 years, right? I read about it. Congratulations. That’s a rare accomplishment these days. Aussie smiled. That’s because of Sharon. I created the problems and she was the one who fixed them.
Marcus laughed genuinely. Same here. Without my wife, this gallery would have collapsed years ago. The two men looked at each other. A short pause followed, but it felt natural. Marcus spoke again. Please come back inside. Let me show you the painting and I’ll make sure Jessica apologizes. Aie shook his head. No need, mate.
She was just doing what she thought was right. Marcus disagreed. No, she handled it poorly. There’s too much elitism in the art world, and I can’t stand it. Please come in. Aie and Marcus walked back into the gallery. Jessica was still upstairs assisting the wealthy clients. Marcus went straight to the window display, pulled out a small key, unlocked the glass case, and carefully removed the painting.
Henry Bowmont, 1947. Marcus said as he passed the piece to AIE, he painted this in his Paris studio during the postwar period. He lost his wife in the bombings. This artwork is dedicated to her. The raindrops you see are actually symbolic tears. Aie held the painting. It was light. The frame was wooden, aged, and worn. He looked at the scene again.
The woman, the window, the rain. But now it felt different. It wasn’t just artwork. It carried a story, a loss, and a deep love. Sharon would truly appreciate it. Beautiful, Aussie said quietly. Sharon will love this. Marcus smiled. Then it’s yours. They listed it at $42,000, but for you, $13800. Artists should support each other.
Aussie looked at Marcus. Artists. Marcus nodded. You make music. I work in visual art. Different mediums, same spirit, same challenges. The small details always matter, don’t they? Azie laughed. You’re right about that. He pulled his credit card from his pocket. Let’s go ahead.
Marcus set the painting on the table and ran the card through a small reader. The payment processed. Packaging will take a little time, Marcus said. But I’ll arrange delivery for tomorrow. Can I have your address? Just then, voices approached from the stairs. Jessica was returning with the wealthy clients, and the warh hall is an original print. Only 50 copies exist.
This one is number 12. She stopped mid-sentence when she saw Aussie, Marcus, and the painting on the table. Her face went pale. Mr. Chun, Jessica said, her voice unsteady. I I didn’t realize, Marcus lifted his hand. Jessica, one moment. He turned to the clients. Mrs. Richardson, Mr. Martinez, this is Aussie Osborne, rock legend.
He purchased a piece from us today. The three clients stared at Aussie. They froze for a beat. Then Mrs. Richardson’s mouth opened slightly. My god, it’s really you. Black Sabbath. Aussie smiled. Yeah, love. That’s me. Mr. Martinez stepped forward. Amazing. My wife is a huge fan. And so am I. Of course. The Paranoid album is a classic.
Aussie nodded politely. Thank you, mate. The clients exchanged glances, then looked toward Marcus, then Jessica. Jessica’s face had shifted from pale to greenish. Her hands were tightly clasped, and she seemed unsure how to react. Marcus spoke, “Jessica, we need to talk in my office.” His tone was calm, but firm.
Jessica nodded, unable to speak. Marcus turned to the wealthy clients. “Please excuse me. Another assistant will help you with the details.” He motioned to a young man from the back room who took over the conversation. Marcus looked at Aussie. Would you give me a moment? Aie nodded. Marcus and Jessica stepped into the back office.
The door closed, but their voices carried through. Marcus remained steady. Jessica, you’ve worked here for 3 years. How many times have I told you? Never judge clients by their appearance. Art is for everyone. He continued, still calm. Today you dismissed Aussie Osborne. tomorrow. It could be a major collector, a museum director, a buyer with influence.
Jessica’s voice came through, shaken. I’m sorry, Mr. Chun. I truly didn’t know, Marcus interrupted. That’s the issue. You didn’t know, and you assumed. In this field, assumptions can cost us everything. Silence followed. Then Marcus spoke again. This is your final warning. If this happens again, you will lose your job. Understood.
A few minutes later, Marcus returned. He looked tired. “I apologize,” he told Aussie. “Some younger staff forget that humility matters more than anything.” Aussie shrugged. “Mate, I wasn’t any smarter when I was young. I was worse. She’ll learn.” Marcus smiled. “You’re understanding.” Aussie laughed. “Not me, Sharon. She taught me.
” Marcus wrapped the painting carefully and handed Aussie a business card. Delivery tomorrow at 2 p.m. We’ll bring it to your home. Aie took the card. Thanks, mate. They shook hands. Aussie headed toward the exit. This time, Jessica followed him outside. Her eyes were wet. Mr. Osborne, she said softly, “I am truly sorry. I was rude.
I hope you can forgive me.” Aussie stopped and turned to her. She was young, and what he saw in her eyes wasn’t fear, but sincere regret. Aie spoke gently. “Love, everyone slips up. You made a mistake today, but tomorrow you’ll try to do better, right?” Jessica nodded, tears falling. Yes, I promise. Aussie smiled.
Then we’re fine. He walked away and Jessica watched him go. Same worn jeans, same old t-shirt, same uneven walk. But now he looked completely different. Now he looked like a legend. That night when Sharon received the gift, she cried. Aie, this is beautiful, she said. But $38,000? That’s too much. Aie smiled.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
