Study Unseen

Paul had seen a lot, from college pranks and avant-garde performances to his aunt Edith attempting a bungee jump, but nothing had prepared him for this.

It all began when his girlfriend, Fiona, invited him to her art show, “Perspectives on the Mundane: A Study of the Unseen.”

Martin, who had been dating Fiona for six months, knew she had a flair for the dramatic. She was a talented painter and sculptor with a wild streak fueled by her bipolar highs.

One week, she’d spend hours delicately painting flowers. The next, she’d propose replacing their coffee table with a pile of bricks she’d “found in the spirit of chaos.”

In the packed gallery, Fiona was in her element, wearing what appeared to be a formal black gown. The crowd gasped and whispered as she mingled, her mischievous smile hinting at something more.

“Wait for it,” she whispered to Paul, sipping champagne.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Fiona made her way to the center of the room, with her back to the crowd. Then, with dramatic flair, she pulled a cord, and the bottom half of her gown fell away, revealing a perfectly circular hole that framed her bare backside like it was a prized painting in the Louvre.

But this was no ordinary mooning. On Fiona’s exposed derrière was an expertly painted face–complete with glittering blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lips that seemed a little too lifelike.

As Fiona shifted her weight, the face came alive, winking and puckering, sending the crowd into hysterics.

“Oh my God,” Paul whispered, frozen. “It’s… talking.”

He wasn’t wrong. Fiona had positioned herself near a speaker playing a recording of whimsical phrases like, “Why so serious?” and “Do I have something on my face?” timed perfectly to her movements.

The pièce de résistance came when one of her collaborators—dressed as an old prospector—strolled up and, with a theatrical bow, placed a lit cigarette between the two cheeks. Now, the painted face appeared to be smoking.

Martin watched in equal parts horror and awe as people howled with laughter. A few prudish attendees fled the room while others filmed on their phones, murmuring, “Is this art? Is it genius?”

“Fiona!” Paul hissed, grabbing her arm. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she said, grinning. “I’m redefining art!”

“You’re redefining embarrassment!”

She waved him off. “Oh, lighten up, Paul. Art should provoke, inspire, and maybe make people a little uncomfortable.”

“A little uncomfortable? You’re a walking Picasso fart joke!”

She smirked. “Exactly. I call it ‘The Butt of All Fears.’”

The show became the talk of the town, with critics split between declaring it groundbreaking or a cry for help. Fiona was unapologetic, basking in her newfound fame.

As for Paul, he tried to explain the event to his mother over tea but couldn’t get past the part where the face started smoking. Ultimately, he realized Fiona wasn’t just a woman—but a force of nature.

Although he wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to dating a living art installation, one thing was clear: life with Fiona would never be boring.