Is that a flute? She asks, and we stare, together, for too long, at the sculpture. A slender wooden form stands, tight face carved into the top, and the long grey protrusion, the one in question, juts out from its middle, not quite a perfect cylinder. Strings fall from the metal, cutting negative space in a sharp diagonal.
Suddenly, the room is crowded, loud. Footsteps creak on the floor and echo and they come from every angle and my ears can’t take it.
It doesn’t look like a flute to me. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I think. And she doesn’t get it, I think. And why are you here. You don’t belong here, I think. You are an idiot. How uncreative, I think.
What’s that one supposed to be? She asks.
