The VaseChapter 8
I met the little whore at the gallery while Mom had her dinner date with the immigration lawyer. The whore introduced me to the gallery owner, a lovely and sweet little French lady, stout and nearing fifty. I brought the drawings from our first night and gave it to the owner. The anger scaring her removed, the brilliance remained. She wanted to show them. "It would have to be in a week. She's leaving after," I said. "I am?" asked the little whore. I nodded. The gallery owner looked...