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."