The top deck of the bus was barren bar myself and several discarded newspapers, the windows thick with condensation from the body heat of departed com...uters, drops of water running rivulets down the glass-like beads of sweat between your lover's shoulders.I thought about how your fresh sweat would taste. That first perspiration of excitement and anticipation. Your perfectly speckled skin reacting to shedding your clothes, betraying your cool nonchalance, your pores puckering as the air hits. "My work appears non-objective, but it's not. I paint micro-landscapes." I described each painting as we stepped from one to the other. Crane didn't comment, nod or shake his head, and my descriptions became terse with less hyperbole. When we finished the tour of my work, I didn't know whether he liked or detested what he saw."Humph," he muttered. "Thank you, young man. Excuse me, please. Two other artists at this show expect my attention, I suspect." With that, he walked away with Sherry on. More

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