I am the only color in a mass of black and grey.
Orange shirt, green trousers, mustard shoes with purple laces. A cigarette hangs from my lips, unlit. I have no intention of lighting it. My lungs deserve better. I am an image in the making. A loner artist on his way to stardom.
The black and grey mass revolves around me. I am the new sun, discovered days ago on a dirty street corner. Men in tuxedos, women in flowing gowns. They are here for me. I am the dazzling star of the evening.
My paintings hang on textured cream walls. The lighting subtle, but enough to reveal the outputs of my imagination.
That is what I draw. Some may say perverse, but the female form is anything but that. Meagre words cannot describe their elegance.
Therefore, my art is devoted to them.
Heads tilt, minds drift, eyes relish the bareness. Dramatic gasps, well-rehearsed observations, transmit a current of acceptance. I feel the tingling in my body. It powers me into believing I am the king of art, duly crowned by art aficionados.
Heavy perfume, cigarette smoke, hustled words, cackling laughter, the air is busy, there is too much going on.
I must have shaken a hundred hands already. Some smile, dropping a lone comment.
I gaze at my women. Their beauty stands unbeaten. On the street corner, they were simply trash, a more dignified form of porn. But here, they are goddesses, only meant to be worshipped.
Pablo, the gallery owner, has offered me food and lodging for a week-long stint. He says the naked women could save his drowning business.
I doubt it.
But I am a hungry scoundrel. So I pimped my goddesses for a seedy motel room and greasy cheeseburgers.
He laughs when he’s nervous. It’s uncontrollable. I’m Going To Die Laughing is the last thought in his mind.