"Only," he answered, "if you play the Rachmaninoff."
She grinned, stood, and caught my unprotesting hand in order to tow me after her towards the work of art that loomed in the very center of the showroom floor. It was almost the size of a bus, a glossy, jet-black creation that didn't even have to whisper to convey its quality, and simultaneously probably existed in a reality so rarefied that I shouldn't even breathe in its vicinity out of fear of the bill.
I eased backwards, trying to create some distance.
Sue glanced over her shoulder at me.
"Amanda?"
"Um... yes?"
"Stop hiding in the shadows. Come stand closer. Come and feel what it's like to dance with this angel."
"But... Oh God, Sue, no, I might damage it..."
"Amanda. I'll pout at you, and I never pout. Don't make me pout."
"
