Art museum. Chloe insults a painting that artist!Beca painted.
Ten minutes.
Chloe's been staring at this painting for ten minutes, and she still can't figure out how it came to be on display in an actual art museum.
If you had set her in front of this painting in a neutral setting, she'd guess it was done by a six-year-old. Set on a beige background, it's splattered with primary-colored paints intermixed with strange stick figure-ish approximations. She takes a step back, squinting, and knocks right into someone behind her.
"Oh, sorry," Chloe apologizes, turning to find she's stumbled over a fairly compact brunette with heavily lined eyes.
"It's cool," she says, shrugging. Then she gestures to the first-grade art project (Chloe refuses to call it a painting). "You like this one? You've been staring at it for a while."
Chloe arches an eyebrow, internally noting the fact that this girl has been observing her for an extended period of time. "Not particularly, no."
The girl stiffens visibly. "Oh?" she asks, sounding a bit forced. "And why's that?"
"Well, it's ugly, to begin with. It looks like a little kid made it," Chloe says, shaking her head. "Clearly the artist is just a Jackson Pollock wannabe."
"Oh, really?" The girl narrows her eyes. "Because I painted this. And the only Jackson Pollock wannabe here is that Jackson Pollock wannabe me." She jabs a thumb in the center of her chest.
"Take a chill pill—" Chloe leans forward to read the placard next to the painting. "—Beca. People are allowed to criticize your work."
"Yeah, but I'm sure you can think of a more polite way to do so," Beca says haughtily. "It's abstract. I wouldn't expect you to get it." She pauses. "Bitch," she adds for good measure.
Chloe laughs derisively. "What was that about being polite?"
"You started it," Beca fires back, crossing her arms over her chest. Something about how the words and the gesture give already-tiny Beca a childish look strikes Chloe as amusing, and she can't suppress the giggle that escapes her.
"Is this funny to you?" Beca asks, looking perturbed.
This amuses Chloe further, and she bites her lip to keep from full-on laughing. "I'm sorry," she says, hiding her smile behind a hand. Then Beca puts her hands on her hips, and she loses it, bursting out laughing (albeit trying really, really hard to keep from disturbing the other museum patients—at which she fails miserably).
"Stop it," Beca hisses, desperately hoping that no one associates her with this strange girl. "Shut up."
"Sorry," Chloe gasps out, taking a few deep breaths to regain her control.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Beca stage-whispers.
"Sorry," Chloe repeats. "You just so… cute. You look like a really pissed-off cat."
"I—I'm—wha—" Beca sputters angrily, face flushing red, before settling on, "I'm not cute!"
Chloe holds up her hands. "O-kay," she says, with a laugh on the edge of her voice.
"Excuse me." Both girls turn to see an elderly lady in an unfortunate paisley dress. "Could you quiet down? You're disturbing everyone." She gestures behind her to the two other people in the room, who actually seem relatively indifferent.
"Yeah, Beca," Chloe says. "You're disturbing people."
Beca looks as though steam is about to pour from her ears. "Sorry, ma'am," she chokes out, eyes shooting daggers at Chloe. The woman ambles away to another room.
Chloe glances at the time on her phone. "Well, I have to go. It was nice to meet you," she says, shooting the painting one last disgusted glare, and starting to walk away.
"Wait," Beca calls, a few paces behind. Chloe turns, eyebrows raised. "I never caught your name."
"Um," Chloe says, suspicious. "I'm Chloe."
Beca nods slowly. "Well. Fuck you, Chloe."
Then she whirls around and stomps away.