Originally published in Scribes magazine
He grabs her arm when they leave the curb. Says crossing Highway 1 is dicey. “Art Festival time.” She knows that. She knows aficionados clog the neighborhood en route to the amphitheater. She knows that’s where they mold people into famous paintings. “Living pictures,” they call it. Isn’t the opposite true? she wonders. Breathing souls flattened into art, … Her red lacquered nails peak through his fist. … posed, decorated, made inanimate, … He says he likes them long. … admired for their idleness and silence. His grip tightens, and she shudders at the genius of it.