By Michael Miner
Eyre bit his lip. “There might have been less to that than met the eye,” he acknowledged. “But inspiration is a constant friend, and our latest collaboration has produced a seasonal classic.”
Ah youth, in all its shallow poignancy, its passionate inconsequence. A sage said youth is wasted on the young, but who but the young would be so fooled by its specious allure?
For hours they trudged through the city’s fashionable streets in search of Truth and Beauty. Some of the art they examined was too small for their room, some of it far too expensive. But what a merry time they had, sipping champagne in plastic glasses and mingling with the glamorous and damned who’d arrived in limousines. Let the rich wear cashmere topcoats and black silk dresses! agreed merry Jenny and merry Brian. In their nubby woolen sweaters they felt just as grand.
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“A man,” he sighed. “A genius.”
“I’m a writer,” he said. “I don’t just sprinkle pixie dust.”
