Can a man be friends with a woman? He noticed her looking, but then she turned away. The gallery was a-buzz, interns and photographers running around madly, tired and mindless, longing for an hour of sleep. But the grand opening was coming and nothing was ready.

Somebody spread some plans in front of him, asking a meaningless question. He tried to catch her eye again, but he could no longer even see her. Seventeen rooms, each one a different theme of street art, she must have run to one of the other ones. Maybe war. Maybe love.

He responded to the question and then decided to occupy himself with the destiny exhibition, but could not focus. He was postponing his rounds, trying not to think about her, but he kept remembering her pale eyes and ghostly presence. He longed to hear her weak voice.

Finally, he did his rounds and saw her in the trash exhibition. She was a meaningless smudge among the heavy-set workmen who were assembling a platform. She turned her head without moving the shoulders, as women do, and smiled at him mildly. He knew she did not care about him.

Next to him, a delivery boy was waiting with a clipboard. Waiting to be relieved. Longing for a signature.

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