There's a new, big Baroque exhibition on, she'd said that morning while he was pouring coffee and John had really, honestly gone for a neutral expression, because Rebecca, his current girlfriend who would undoubtedly be off the list again as soon as he aired his first intentions of returning to Afghanistan, next opportunity he could get, was an art history major and felt rather differently about galleries than he did. Rather than applauding him for not audibly groaning at the suggestion, she had thrown one look in his direction and continued: oh, don't be that way, John, it'll be fun! We'll do the tour!

Because he'd actually like to continue to get some, he deliberately hadn't replied that unless it was overseas, he wasn't much interested. Instead he'd nodded and smiled politely, offering to take her out for lunch afterwards. She'd been very appreciative.

The tour managed a head start of a good fifteen minutes before Rebecca ended up in an undoubtedly relevant discussion with the guide about the dating of a specific painting that to John just looks like gloomy splotches on canvas and maybe the outline of a skull -- and he mostly wants to face-palm at the sheer awkwardness of it, the other tour guests throwing him dirty looks while the two women turn increasingly more enthusiastic, borderline hysteric in their debate. He stays back while they continue into the next exhibit, telling himself he'll go find the loo and then catch up, shouldn't be too difficult, the tour guide gave him a map before they started.

That's when he overhears a bunch of teenagers, obviously American, gang up on one specific kid. Watching them out the corner of his eye, he frowns slightly, the kid seemingly noticing him after a few seconds and making a rather pathetic attempt at seeming unbothered. John purses his lips. "You act out in museums often?"