Actually, Bob, I didn't...do well, that is. Didn't write on Tuesday and really had to force myself to the desk last night. I'm ready for this slump thing to be over. Over, do you hear? I'm at a loss how to make it be over but will entertain suggestions.
Maybe I'll take up painting, thought Mona standing in the mildew-y smelling blast from the Cinnamon Gallery's overworked air conditioner. I couldn't be any worse than this guy. She bent forward and squinted at the artist's signature smeared in the lower right corner of the framed canvas. Winfred Danie it read, written in what looked like a child's handwriting. Was Winfred Danie someone influential's nephew acclaimed as the family prodigy and given a show in return for a juicy donation? Mona shook her head and glanced around looking for a sheet describing the art. There it was, a haphazard pile of poorly Xeroxed pages flung in a cut-down corrugated carton. Very chic, she thought derisively as she stooped to pick one up. She frowned at the grainy black and white photo of the artist placed at a slight angle atop the sheet of text describing him and his works. She had met this man at one of Jack's influence-currying cocktail parties. The man in the picture had been quite convinced that Mona herself was on the appetizer menu. It had taken the better part of a Mai Tai poured down the front of his slacks to convince him otherwise.
That Mona, she's quite the girl. No longer helping Jack attain status on the island. Not earning her keep. Tsk. No wonder Jack fell for Manning's treasure bait.
See you tonight.
--Barbara
No comments:
Post a Comment