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Show 162 Afterward, though, Hunt felt uncertain. "What's on the ceiling?" Hunt asked her. Leah hesitated. "I give up," she said. "Paint? Spackle?" "Honey, when, you know, we were ... you were looking at the ceiling. Your eyes were open and on the ceiling." "There's a cobweb I must have missed," Leah explained. Hunt sighed. ". . . Was I even there?" he asked her. "Was I_ . . . present?" "All present and accounted for," she teased, sweetly touched his skin. "Don't mock me," Hunt said. His voice sounded like it came from another place. "I love you," Leah assured. "Whoever I am -- hmm?" Hunt said. "Whoever you are -- yes." "... I finished three of the paintings," Hunt told her. "Good," Leah said. "Where's Suskind's famous contract?" The contract guaranteeing Hunt a minimum of a hundred thousand dollars for producing sixteen canvasses of New York doormen and elevator scenes to be signed 'Reuben Garrison' arrived in the next morning's mail. "Suskind's straight," Hunt announced. "Hunt: your agent's sexual preferences are of little matter to me," Leah said. "But it is nice to have that contract." |