An elderly couple went past the gallery this morning. The man stopped and looked through the large display window. His wife calls him, angrily. “How often still? It’s the third time today already!”
?!
Then I saw the man expertly handling a comb he just retrieved from his jacket pocket. He takes it out from its own tiny red leather case and meticulously starts combing his hair. “Well, it has to be done right!”, he said. He’s almost bald, I thought, watching his ample conductor-like hand movements. Then he set his sunglasses straight, had another look and, grinning satisfied, he walked away.