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Order this photo as a framed 8"x10" archival print! Order now! On her 5th birthday, she took him to the museum. Here, all the greatest forgeries were behind glass. Here were the masters who copied the masters. These were the ones who could really counterfeit. In the folio, they used words like authentic in sentences she would use when talking about her own relationships -- then again, she was often accused of being pretentious.
She whispered that it was their anniversary. He felt terrible. Because he always forgot. Not that he meant to. He just forgot. It didn't mean much that it was honest, that is, authentic.
"Hey, don't cut yourself," she said as he squeezed his glass of Veuve Clicot. He always did this immolation whenever true commitment was questioned. It was the olde story, that cliché. The pretense that only the deluded somehow suffered well through life.
"What are you saying," he asked, forcefully squeezing the flute so it sliced his palm and sent his reflection scattering across the floor.
"I'm saying that you can't always be such a showoff."
And again she was a flag waving in the wind. Behind them, six buxom brides posed before a stable. A well-groomed cocker spaniel eyed the stunned pheasant that twitched at the foot of his master.
