The Gainsborough Exhibit

"On loan, of course" Annabelle raises her left eyebrow to point to a very feathery, very beautiful, very tall Mrs. Graham circa 1777. 

Jocey has accepted A's tea invitation at her apartments across the Wallace Collection. How beautiful. The furniture -- very modern. It is apartments plural because Annabelle's mother had transformed three huge penthouse flats into one giant residence with hanging gardens facing South, facing North and facing East. The West side....remains uncovered like a face in leathery palms. 

London's leathery skin folded tight

 The furniture -- grandiose yet somehow weightless. Hanging in mid air. Suspended like sunshine on the continent. 

"The revolutionary sales had been good for my grandfather..."

"Oh, isn't Paul meant to return soon?"

"Yes, but what difference does any of it make anymore?"

Paul had been incredibly kind to let her keep America to herself. New York and its bustling vitality all to herself. Who knew she would be missing the old country as much as she has been -- the waves, the clicks of heels near Waterloo Station, the bits of newspaper ink smudged on young men's fingers as they read morning news in the underground. What is the meaning of life?

Is life emboldened by poetry or dissipated within it? Who needs this nostalgia? Does the nagging feeling of life having passed you by ever really go away? When does the morning begin to flower into opportunity? When does youth suddenly tatter at the edges of a very tired day? How do we find solace in the middle of an afternoon at the office? Why are we born so unhappy? 

Earlier in the day she had passed by a homeless musician with two dogs -- a beagle and a German shepherd -- both of whom were young teenage dogs with ears folded meekly -- looking at passerby with the sweetest humility. Three beings suspended in utter truth. A moment of sincere innocence. An urban kaleidoscope. An infinite city filter. This is everything wrong with the world. This smear of tenderness overlooked on a busy street. It doesn't matter and nothing ever really matters and moments bleed into bigger moments. Life forgets. It is cruel and unforgiving.