They just don't get it
Leaning against a brick wall, he dropped the hand that was holding his cigarette, let it hang at his side, exhaled smoke.
“They just don’t get it. They look and they nod their heads, but they don’t know why they’re nodding.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He squinted one eye and flicked the stub of his cigarette, aiming for the storm drain on the other side of the street.
“Want to go up to the corner and get a beer?”
“Sure,” I said. “But shouldn’t we stick around until the show is over?”
“You can if you want. I’ll set the place on fire if I go back in there.”
“And burn all your paintings?”
“I’ll make new ones.”
I looked in through the window and saw the side profile of a woman, standing in front of one of Jack’s paintings. She had one hand propping up her elbow and her other hand under her chin. One knee was bent and her head was tilted slightly. Her hair fell so that I could only see the tip of her nose. I thought she might be young, beautiful even. But then she turned and I saw her face and that she was not young.
Jack’s agent was already walking over to her instinctually, even before I heard her voice, muffled by the glass, “How much ...”
I turned back and he was already halfway down the alley.
“You coming or what?” he shouted back at me.