Leaning across my halloumi salad to whisper to my best friend: "That child is creepy."
The child being a painting on the wall, staring at me with huge, accusing eyes. That's what you get for having lunch in a posh art museum. But the rest of the interior is beautiful and the salad and the company are excellent. After a great cup of coffee, we drift through the souvenir shop and laugh at Andy Warhol-shaped fridge magnets and artificial snowballs that even feel like real snowballs, minus the cold, when you squeeze them. ( Who came up with the idea of fake snowballs, and why, and is this person a millionaire now? )
My friend goes back to her studies and I try to decide how to spend the rest of my day off. The day is typical November: A chilly wind and a grey darkness that hardly qualifies as daylight.
I could go for a run. I could study a foreign language. I could go visit my mother. Or I could wrap myself in a blanket and spend this dismal day on the sofa, watching DVDs.
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