Al Fresco

When Mr. Mallory glimpsed naked bodies on the lawn by Randall library, he sneezed, the shock of exposure expelled in a violent rush.

Mr. Mallory, bald and trending toward portly in his middle years, was a very private person. He kept even his vest snuggly buttoned and his private thoughts private. He did enjoy nature in a controlled setting, which was why he favored the bit of nicely knolled lawn between the library and the clock tower. The splash of the fountains, the trees in their seasonal states of leafy dress or undress, all created a soothing setting for a noontime ham or tuna sandwich. Nudity was not something he’d expected—or welcomed—in his routine.

He chanced a second glance in the direction of the nudes. They lay motionless on the grass. Asleep? Dead? He shivered in the February bluster, but his curiosity edged him closer. Heart rocking, face averted, he navigated by peripheral vision alone.

“Look! Marika finished her installation!” A girl with green hair brushed past him, followed by a gawky boy with a skateboard.

Mr. Mallory trailed them to the knoll. A highly realistic sculpture confronted him. Two bare, bronzed bodies were locked in lovely thrall, their legs entangled, torsos and heads melding into a seamless flow of naked passion. The way it was sculpted, Mr. Mallory couldn’t tell whether the two figures were male or female. It could have been a man and a woman, two women, or two men. A neat white card stapled to a wooden stake proclaimed: LOVE FOR ALL TO SEE.

More students joined the first two, regaling the display with hoots and giggles, selfies, Instagram posts, and high fives.

Mr. Mallory’s round cheeks burned. He turned and marched across the lawn, up the steps, and into Randall Library.

“Have you seen it? He demanded of the smiling woman at the circulation desk. “What’s out there?” he pointed for clarity.

“The art?”

“Is it?”

“Yes, public art,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Does it offend you?”

He stumped away without answering. Of course, he was offended. It offended every private fiber of his private being. He plopped down on the stone bench at the edge of the lawn and watched students streaming by the sculpture—taking, laughing, composing tableaus. They didn’t seem at all offended. But maybe they were all arty types.

As he walked back to the parking lot, his mind in a muddle, he caught a whiff of some familiar fragrance. It carried a fragment of very old memory, of pink flesh, warm and spongy to the touch, of bath talc and bare toes. He shivered and it was gone. He looked down and noticed he’d lost a button from his vest.