I watched as Loren swirled her glass of expensive wine. We sat in the courtyard bar of the American Art Museum. The bar was indoors but the windows were wall to wall, allowing patrons to see outside and onto the lawn of the Smithsonian. Workers milled about, scarfing down paper-bag lunches and trying to catch a small dose of vitamin D before they had to go back into the windowless cubicles. I’d never sat in a cubicle a day in my life. I doubt I could stand the confinement. I was feeling trapped enough by my companion as she stood there holding the information hostage.
Loren had long since put the photograph back in her vintage bag. It was no matter. I’d committed the markings to memory. Although my short-term memory was photographic, it was the longer-term ones that had the tendency to fa
