May I cast you in plaster, for my art?

Oh yes, let her. She is brilliant, aren’t you, mein frau?

No, I am only what I am. If that is brilliant, then so be it. I am not worthy to judge even myself.

Such is her genius.

As the two vied for greater expression of her apparent genius, I began to lose my target in the growing crowd. I knew if he made it as far as the Pastel Morgue, he would be invisible, in a least a conversational sense. I placed my finger on her lips, interrupting a statement concerning, as far as I could tell, “the feeling of feeling.”

“That is your art,” I whispered. I punctuated the comment with a slight crack in my voice. I wished to imply that the very concept of art, insofar as she created it, was beyond verbal expression, and such an attempt would result in my falling into the sobs of a hungry child.

I was allowed to leave in the brief silence which followed. She stood, staring into her open hand, unable or unwilling to break the spell I’d cast and her cookie stood likewise silent, unsure of exactly how and when to concur.