This is how I got here, really. It started with that idea about the installation in the building across the street from the coffee shop, the one with the garage doors, yes the old firehouse. It wasn’t even my idea, but anyway, there I was having made it all happen, the caterer, the paintings, the lighting, the flowers. It was supposed to be the five of us, just a quiet afternoon, a sort of “First Monday” party. So, one by one they cancelled. I’m there with the gallery owner, and one by one they call. Sorry. Something came up, the baby’s sick, unscheduled meeting. Fine. I tried. We ate most of the sushi. There's some still in my car, I think. It must reek by now.
Here I am. Tubes, that damn monitor beeping every fifteen minutes. Pulling out of the driveway, I didn’t look left, I was thinking about you, wondering why didn’t come right away, what the real reason was because when your secretary called I could tell that there wasn’t really a meeting. As a liar, she sucks.
Look, don’t feel bad. We’ll do it again, OK?
Excerpt from “installation” by tom ryan