Nestled up to the rusty ornate art work they sipped on Cabernet and Merlot. They rustled with a sense of importance, the limo waiting. Simple fine lines, pleasures they could not feel concealed behind the work escaped them.
“Spectacular” they said.
“That sounds Grand.”
Arc-white eyeballs, cracked red finger tips they did not think about.
They loved the work, the chains, the lockets, the devices, the propane, the trinket perched on the porch. They poured more wine.
The breeze blew hot across the vineyards, the wind of conversation skimmed the surface.
“It’s called Marley’s Harley.”