“you still miss him, do you?” a friend asked me over lunch today of in-your-face korean barbecue. that friend who bailed on me last night. him, that boyfriend i talked to, sort of, last week. miss him, my friend’s inartful euphemism of me still being head over heels over the ex.
there is this story about the mystic painter agnes martin. the recluse ms. martin one day was having visitors—and this is sounding very apocryphal already—and one of the guests, let’s say a little girl, was enamored with the flower the painter had in her vase. the painter asked the little girl if she thought the flower—rose from here on—was beautiful as she regarded it. the girl answered yes. then ms. martin held the rose behind her back and asked the little girl the same question. the girl again said yes.