Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Tom didn’t know Andrew all that well, except that he was an excellent tennis player and could be a good guy.
But he could also be a colossal ass.
Andrew had tagged along with their group because Patsy was seeing him, and everyone liked Patsy.
“But no matter how you feel about Yoko,” Mika continued, “or the love affair of John and Yoko, one inalienable truth is that if John had not met Yoko that day, there would be no ‘Imagine.’ Yoko herself said that if nothing else, the union of her and John gave the world that song, and the message in that song, and that was meant to be. As that’s the best song of the twentieth century, and the message is the most profound a song has ever delivered, you can’t argue it.”
“I could argue it,” Andrew stated.
This fucking guy.
“Bud,” Tom said under his breath.
When he muttered his one word, Mika turned her gaze to Tom, and it stayed there for an uncomfortably long time.
She eventually returned to Andrew.
“You could argue what?”
“That song is the best of the twentieth century.”
“Name a better one,” she challenged.
Andrew either couldn’t, or he wasn’t fast enough, though she did give him time before she again shifted her gaze to Tom.
“The other words are ‘dreamer,’ ‘join,’ ‘us,’ ‘sharing’ and ‘life,’” she said softly, staring right in his eyes.
Once she’d said that, she walked away.
“Well, at least she wasn’t obvious by adding ‘Imagine,’” Rod mumbled.
“Probably would have sucked you off in the cloakroom, man, you just asked for it,” Andrew said to Tom.
Tom clenched his teeth.
“There a reason you have to be such a huge dick on too frequent of occasions?” Rod asked.
“Yeah, Andrew. As you know, he’s very married,” Patsy snapped.
“She didn’t care.” Andrew jerked his head in the direction Mika had walked away. “She was gagging for it.”
“No,” Tom said slowly. “She was thinking we were a bunch of dumb jocks who didn’t understand the point she was trying to make with her piece. And she was right.”
“We’re not here to write a dissertation on her art.” Andrew said the last word like it tasted bad. “We’re here because we’re in town for that charity thing and because we like Terence Ladrelle’s music, and she’s banging Ladrelle, and we thought he’d be here too,” Andrew pointed out, incorrectly.
At least, that wasn’t why Tom was there, though he did like Ladrelle’s music.
It was that Mika Stowe might be the current It Girl, muse to musicians and artists and photographers, party girl and budding style icon.
But she seemed interesting, and Tom was interested in what she had to say through her art.
And from what he’d seen so far of her showing, the microscope now being his favorite part, he felt it proved she was.
“I’m here to see what she’s wearing,” Miranda whispered to Patsy. “And only she could make jeans and a glittery top, with bare feet, look couture.”
“Word,” Patsy replied.
“You do her, don’t let it get to Ladrelle,” Andrew advised Tom. “I bet you can take care of yourself, but Ladrelle is right out of the ghetto.”
Tom saw so much red, he had to blink.
“For fuck’s sake,” Rod bit out.
Miranda lifted her hand, and after dropping her pointer, middle, ring and pinkie finger on her thumb as she spelled the word, “D. O. N. E. Done,” she stormed away.
“I know this ugly is from you trying it on with her, and she told you to go fuck yourself, and you obviously couldn’t take that hit to your manhood, which is majorly unappealing. But the rest of it is a dealbreaker,” Patsy declared. “So now I’ll jump on that action and also tell you to go fuck yourself.”
With that, she followed Miranda.
“Looks like you’re not gonna get laid tonight,” Rod noted to Andrew, watching Patsy go. “Or ever again, at least with Patsy.”
“Are you serious?” Tom was also addressing Andrew. “The reason you’re acting like such an ass is because you crashed and burned with Mika Stowe?”
“That used pussy?” Andrew scoffed.
Tom studied him.
Yeah.
He was being an ass because he’d wanted her, and she hadn’t wanted him.
But also, he was just an asshole.
“Done,” Tom said quietly to his friend who he was glad was more like an acquaintance, because Tom was not bluffing.
He was done.
And then he, too, walked away.
* * *
Several weeks later…
He didn’t seek it out, but when he noticed it in passing in one of Genny’s magazines, he read the review of Mika’s showing.
It was scathing.
So much so, Tom stood still, holding the magazine in hand, rereading the words because they were so far from what he’d experienced (outside Andrew’s horseshit), he couldn’t reconcile it.
There was mystery in her show. Poignancy. Thoughtfulness. Hope. Nothing in it was classically beautiful, but all of it made you think.
Which was what art was.
Or at least that was what Tom thought it was.