The Gallery Opening
"Artist Noor's first gallery show celebrates Pakistani British identity. Art collector Rashid buys every piece—but what he really wants can't be purchased."
The Gallery Opening
"I'll take them all."
Noor stared at the man who'd just offered to buy her entire collection. Rashid Malik—according to the gallery owner's frantic whisper—was one of London's biggest art collectors.
"That's not how this works."
"It's exactly how this works." His smile was infuriating. "I write a check. You become successful."
"Success I've earned, not purchased."
"Who says you didn't earn it?" He stepped closer to her largest piece—a woman in a hijab dissolving into the British flag. "This is extraordinary. The commentary. The pain. The hope."
"You understand it?"
"I've lived it." His eyes found hers. "Being Pakistani in Britain isn't costume. It's collision. Constant negotiation between selves."
"Yes." She breathed. "Exactly."
She refused the bulk purchase. He bought three pieces instead.
And kept coming to the gallery. To look, he said. To absorb.
To see her, she realized.
"This is unprecedented," the gallery owner whispered. "Rashid Malik doesn't visit. He acquires."
"Maybe he found something he can't acquire."
"What's that?"
Noor watched him studying her art. "Understanding."
He finally asked her to dinner after the show's closing night.
"Not to negotiate," he said. "To talk. I haven't met anyone who sees what I see."
"Which is?"
"The beauty in being between." He took her hand. "Please, Noor. One dinner."
Dinner became his penthouse—surrounded by his collection, her piece displayed prominently.
"You hung it in your bedroom," she said, staring.
"I wanted to see it first thing every morning." He moved behind her. "And now I want to see its creator too."
She turned. "This is fast."
"This is inevitable." He kissed her. "Say you feel it too."
"I feel it."
They made love under her art—fitting, she thought, creating something new together.
Rashid touched her like she was precious, like he was trying to understand every brushstroke of her being.
"Meri jaan," he breathed, moving inside her. "You're the masterpiece."
"That's very collector of you."
"That's very in love of me." He thrust deeper. "Keep me. Don't sell."
"Your world and mine are different," Noor said afterward.
"Our world is the same." He traced her face. "We both create. I just use money; you use paint."
"Oversimplification."
"Maybe. But I want to simplify. With you." He kissed her forehead. "Marry me. Let me build something permanent."
The wedding featured her art on every wall.
The marriage featured his devotion in every moment.
Some acquisitions, she learned, were mutual.