“It’s quite a piece, yes?” The saleswoman had finally approached.
“I’m not sure it’s my taste. I’m more of an aesthete.” Evil Editor squinted his eyes. “Do you have anything a little more highbrow?”
The saleswoman crossed her arms, studied him. She drummed her white-tipped nails on her bare arms. “It’s an original ‘Art Bomb.’ It showed at the El Teatro?”
He nodded. El Teatro, blah, blah, blah. His buzz began to evaporate.
Suddenly, she leaned close. “She’s real, you know.”
“The model?” Now, she had his attention.
“No,” she scoffed, “the woman in the painting. Take her home, hang her up and when midnight comes she will spring to life and fulfill your deepest desires, obey your every command.”
“Clearly you take me for a fool,” he snapped.
An hour later, he hung the painting and sat back to watch the clock. When the witching hour arrived, the dark-haired beauty slid off the canvas, stood naked before him.
“I am here to do whatever you ask.” Her voice was soft, her accent slightly…Bajan? “That is,” she continued coyly, “if you think you are in need of my…services.”
“You have no idea,” he said and led her to the room where they could get down to business. He excused himself to slip into something more comfortable.
When he emerged, her mouth was agape. “Sir,” she exclaimed, “I did not expect it to be so…big.” He smiled; it was enormous.
“I mean…how much do you think it weighs?”
Though the thought had crossed his mind, he had never actually pulled out the scale. He shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you call it in America?”
He ran through the many euphemisms at his disposal. In the end, he opted for the most common.
“The slush pile.”