She looks alarmed, distracted, perhaps listening to some inner voice. She cranes her neck down and pulls her heavy breasts up so she can study her belly, then fixes her gaze on me. “Hey,” she says, smiling brightly all of a sudden, “remember that Duchamp installation in Philly we talked about, the one with the hairless vulva in the bushes and the eternal flame?”

“Yeah.” I nod my head warily in case she didn’t pick that up. I have no idea if I can speak anymore.

“What?” I croak.