“Is that an original Smrnk Frnklstein on your wall?”

I made up the name of the artist. But it was a legitimate question nonetheless.

“Yes.”

I couldn’t tell it she was lying or if I’d just channelled some truth about the world that I didn’t know. So I nodded and wagged my finger at it for five beats, and then I added, “that’s a damn fine specimen.”

“It’s a 1978. His blue period.”

The painting was a wash of rusty red, brown and blacks, through which you could vaguely make out the outlines of two, maybe three people. It looked quite a lot like it had been painted in dried blood. Period, maybe, blue, no. I wagged my finger and my head again for about ten beats each, not always in sync. “That guy!”

“Would you like another drink?” she asked.

“That guy!”

She stood up to go to the kitchen, at which point I realised, yes, I did want another drink. My glass was empty. I tipped it to my lips and sucked the ice cube into my mouth and crunched it into three pieces which i rolled around with my tongue.