He’d taken his phone out to show her his work. Countless images of his shadow. “No tricks!” he’d insisted.
“Do you always come to these events?” The artist replied that he did by nodding with his eyes closed. Evidently, he was drunk and seemed to have trouble standing. But he took her arms and attempted to dance.
“I always get invited because I have worked with them before. All my exhibitions come out of these events,” he slurred. Their dancing was awkward. He seemed like he might break. She felt enourmous next to him.
There was something desperate about him.