Become a Patron of the Arts, They Said

I was enjoying the art show I paid for. The venue was properly located, the wine and cheeses were excellent, and the art was adequate. The artist, Lucas, was right next to me the whole time like a good little boy.

“And this one, Mr. Delaney, is a very angry piece,” he would say, or “I put a lot of passion into creating this arrangement,” and I was amused by his deference.

But then we got to a piece in the corner. It was a woman sitting astride a dragon or some kind of reptile. She was naked, her lips apart, very erotic, looking straight at the viewer. Her bare breasts were covered with droplets of white liquid. The breasts I knew so well. The face, the hair I knew so fucking well.

“What the fuck is this, Lucas? Huh?” I screamed.

“This is a very…”

“My wife. This is my wife, you fucking piece of shit. What were you thinking about, huh? Fucking her? Did you fucking fuck her? You fucker?”

I stormed out of there, onwards, my mind already set on my top-floor office, to cuddle with my stocks and portfolios. As I was on my way out, I saw Lucas’s plain-looking assistant with her puppy-dog eyes, walking slowly towards him to console him.

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