The old man told Giselle he couldn’t help her lift the sofa up those stairs into her house. The old man had a bad back, he told her.
Oh, okay, he was more than a little scared she would jump his aged ass. She was squinting at him, looking at him like he was just a morsel of awesome male awesomeness. He couldn’t be imagining this.
He’d rather pick up the sofa.
The old man told her he was interested in some of Bubba Roy’s art. The old man knew once an artist dies, prices often skyrocket. Who’s to say? Just compare, that’s all he asked. Stuff looked a helluva lot better than a million dollar Rothko.
The old man had long been puzzled by that man’s acclaim. Who was kidding whom? HEY! He wiped down a monotone square in one coat of solid black. Look for yourself.
Old man couldn’t help but notice, those tikis kinda did favor the artist and his mom.
Certainly more decorative than that Rothko. And Bubba Roy was self-taught.