You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening.
There is only one exhibit. She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you:
a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a
pool at her feet. She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a
formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty
pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction --
You hesitate, about to turn away. Her hand balls into a fist.
"They told me you were coming."
Copyright (c) 2000 by Emily Short. (First-time users should type 'help'.)
Release 1 / Serial number 000324 / Inform v6.15 Library 6/7
The Gallery's End
Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining
swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand.
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