In my search after strange characters, Mr. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. He also had Janine’s daughter, Traci, who he just couldn’t leave alone after she reached puberty, when she grew a small set of underdeveloped breasts. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. “I believe that he would bore me. For a long time neither spoke again. I don’t care what else there is in the world.
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