OCR Text |
Show 81 Bourbon?" "Bourbon's ..." "Jack Daniels: On its way!" They hung up. Hunt listened to the air-conditioner. He looked over toward the woman, Victoria. He couldn't see her. All he could see was her reflection. She was a flat and insubstantial magnet, only, for light. Or was he looking at the woman herself? "That's all today," he said. "I've done as much as I can do here this afternoon. I'm exhausted." "But you said you'd just begun." "Do you think painting's easy?!" He surprised himself, his shouting. He surprised her. "No," she said. Her voice came from the mirror. "I don't. I know it's not. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." She put her raincoat on and left. Hunt lay down. He watched the television. His champagne and bourbon came, and he stood the bottles on his counter, next to his Sani-wrapped glasses and skin bracer: Photo-realism! He took out the Correggio postcard, his Adoration from The Metropolitan and wrote a note: SOMETHING'S HAPPENED TO ART. He mailed the card to Leah. That night, Hunt won more money. Freeman asked if he'd like a larger room. "We have suites," Freeman said, "with refrigerators and bars." "It disturbs me to move," Hunt said quietly. The thought startled him. He won some more; this time, craps. He'd never played. He aped the man beside him who placed all the numbers, then pressed. "Press it!" Hunt barked |