The Painting

IN an orange dim lit gallery, the conosieur approaches the woman. He points to a small rectangle canvas. "Did you do this?" He asks. A smile sweeps across the womans face. "I placed it there." "Yes.." the man continues, "..but, did you do this?" The woman's smile lingered."I brought it here and placed it on the wall myself." "It is very red." said the man. "Tell me, miss, is it for sale?" "Only to those that are interested in buying." "Well, I am very interested. How much are you willing to let this one go for?" "You tell me." "I beg your pardon?" "You tell me. How much are you willing to let this one go for, sir?" The man was silent. He stared blankly at the woman through the thick lenses of his round glasses. "Ma'am, I think you are terribly confused." "No, sir. It is you that is terribly confused." The woman's smile had faded. Her dark red face faded to a blackness. The man's face shifted into agony. His body twisted in an idle state. The woman took a step forward and began slowly. "The painting on the wall is not a painting at all." The man was frozon and she repeated "The painting on the wall is not a painting at all." A cold air dampend the room. "The painting on the wall is not a painting at all."