It was a damp and gray Wednesday afternoon, exactly the kind of day that you hated. Such days often lead to you sulking and fixing bits of the TARDIS that were probably best left alone. Such days tended to end badly for all involved parties. Today, though, you'd decided that maybe it was better to have a quiet outing (no aliens, you promised) and declared that we were going to look at art.

The supposed grandeur of it all was a little lost on me. Some of the pieces were intriguing and ingenious, but I didn't feel that I was sufficiently educated or perhaps equipped, to fully appreciate them. When I mentioned this, you dismissed my concerns cheerfully and attempted to give me an explanation of art forms in various societies around the universe.

I did not consider this especially helpful; I was more interested in knowing why someone would think it was a good idea to place a towering sculpture of a spider outside of an art gallery. Then again, the spider was better than the giant coffeepot with a tree growing out of it that we'd seen closer to the city's center.

At least the gallery itself was awe-inspiring. I didn't know the right words for it either, but these would have to do: towering, elegant, regal, austere. I preferred it to most of the art it housed, and said as much.

We were standing beside a piece I did like, one that reminded me of a forest on a planet whose name I'd lost track of. Their trees, or what passed for trees there at any rate, grew luminous crystals in place of leaves. These Earth trees (how strange it is, to have to specify), had had sections of their trunks removed and replaced with glass threaded through with strands of light.

You asked me then what I'd choose to put in a gallery. I looked at you, the way the light of the trees touched you and thought that you, you were far more beautiful and meaningful and impossible than anything any human could ever create.

Sometimes it almost hurt to look at you directly. You were too bright. Like an eclipse, you were best viewed through filters.

And what was this art compared to that, to you? Nothing I had ever seen, nothing I would ever see could ever compare to that overwhelming ache of anticipation, desire, fear, and sheer elation that you inspired in me.

Did I say that, when I answered your question? Of course not.


Inspired by my semi-recent trip(s) to Ottawa. I like the idea of the Doctor visiting cities that I'm familiar with and might be doing more with it in the future.

This is a bit of an abrupt ending perhaps, but I think I like it the way it is. I just can't make any more of this story.

Love, thanks, semicolons, and the promise of dialogue in my future stories to my beta, wolfraven80.