There were a few users that really did come to the place on an almost daily basis. As she recognized them, she began to study them relentlessly. Most of them liked the sculpture but what really drew them in were the paintings. There was a small dedicated group that would show up late on weeknights, when the galleries were less crowded. Most of these would set up sketching pads and try and reproduce what they were looking at.

There was one that Lydia had trouble categorizing. This patron was a lady, probably in her 40’s. It looked life had treated her roughly.

Lydia had picked her out early because she stood out. Her jacket was out of date and on the cheap side. She didn’t match up to the standards that the other patrons set as far as fashionable style. Lydia didn’t know her name, but had mentally given her a title so she could better keep track of her. She thought of her as the Bag Lady.

Maybe that was too harsh. Probably it was, but she kept it to herself. There was no way she could be hurt by it, so what was the harm?

The Bag Lady visited almost every day. She’d come in the early evening and look around to judge the crowd. If the people allowed, the first place she’d visit was the contemporary wing. She’d look at the pictures of the models and the amateurs with a curious longing on her face.

Lydia wanted to know her story but couldn’t think of any way to really find out. Well, she could hire a detective or something if it came to that. She decided she didn’t want to know badly enough to do that. The idea of simply walking up and talking never occurred to her.

Why did she come and stare at the young women like that? Was she jealous? The Bag Lady’s looks weren’t anything spectacular. In most places people wouldn’t give her a second glance. Here in the Temple of Beauty, she seemed almost repulsive. It very well could be jealousy.

Another idea occurred to Lydia. This one was far more romantic at least. What if she’d lost a daughter years ago and was hoping to find her picture here! Wouldn’t that be something. Lydia could almost put together the breathless news stories already.

Or maybe it was more frightening story. What if the Bag Lady had once been a model herself and she was somehow hoping that an old picture of her would show up and be immortalized. Lydia looked more closely at her face. Even if she smoothed out the violence that age had brought, that story didn’t fit. It must be something else.

Sometimes Lydia thought this was a silly game to play but it didn’t stop her. She was busy, very busy and if it took something harmless like this to keep her sane then so be it. Besides, didn’t everyone look at strangers and wonder what their story was?

There were others that caught her attention. One was the Poet. He’d show up every Sunday night. Each week he’d pick out a different piece of art and stand in front of it. Then he’d turn and get everyone’s attention and read a poem, most likely of his own writing. The patrons would sometimes applaud and other times look embarrassed.

Lydia had discussions with the rest of the Temple staff, trying to decide what they should do about him. The consensus was to leave him alone. Every place needed color and he helped provide it for them. Besides, Sunday was a slow night and he didn’t bother many people.

There was also the Fox. This one worried Lydia. He was an older man, dressed all in black. He looked at the art as most of the patrons did but there was something about him that spooked her. He seemed to be casing the place, looking for weaknesses. She fully expected to find out that he’d stolen something from them.

She even called together her security team and had someone sent over from her insurance people. They took a long look at him but found nothing they could act on. In the end, they decided that whenever he entered, a special signal would go to the front desk. He’d be watched the entire time he was there. That was really the best they could do unless he gave them cause.