I gawked at the short, muscly woman walking through the massive doors. She wore beige pants and a loose blue blouse, with tomboyish, straight black hair sitting snug on her head.
She avoided the artists, wandering alone breezing through people and portraits alike.
Soon she found a chair in a corner to people watch. She seemed incapable of appreciating art and I wondered why she stayed. Yet she lingered, unperturbed as the clock ticked closer to judgement. When it did, I stood, gulped and turned to the stage.
She was the judge; the renowned artist I had dreamt of meeting.