Art Therapist v. Artist

The Art Therapist writes "Art Collector" on the Archivist's list of the dead. She puts the list and the golf pencil back into the well-crafted basket.

From the edge of the forest the bracken parts. An older, well-dressed man emerges. He gently wipes the bark and dried leaves from his overcoat. He carefully straddles the fence, crosses, and walks to the oak. He's tall. His face angular, handsome. His bearing noble, elegant, indifferent.

Good morning, he says.

Hi, says the Art Therapist.

He takes a cigar from beneath his coat, a box of matches from his shirt pocket. She sees the glint of silver cufflinks. His coat is black, of a bespoke but forgotten style, his shirt white, tie black and thin tucked under the waist of his wool sans-a-belt slacks. He lights the cigar masterfully, his cheeks puckering. The rhythmic draw. Pweh, pweh, pweh.

Have you seen the overpasses of Los Angeles? he asks, waving out the match.

Yeah, she says.

Exceptional. Don't you think?

I guess they are, sure.

If you will excuse a short digression? -

No, please, go on.

I find them exceptional because they differ so little from the overpasses of any other American city.

How were you expecting them to be different?

I wasn't. I was expecting Los Angeles to differ.

It didn't?

No, it did.

You didn't like it?

On the contrary, I loved it.

Just not the overpasses.

Yes, exactly.

He politely offers that they prepare a fight to the death.

Oh, of course, thank you, she says.

He gestures toward the pistols, graciously offering her the first pick. She chooses her pistol, he takes the second. They walk to the field and stand fifteen paces apart.

He holds the cigar in his mouth, twisting slightly, smoke dancing from thin lips.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.