The thin woman with a pearl necklace, and a wine glass in hand, with her nose high up and her mascara too thick: "They fall for me, of course, they fall for the trick all the time."
A man with a goatee and spectacles held too low, with his hands behind his back: "I do have my own personal Louvre, thanks for asking, and the Mona Lisa shall be in it soon, if my business allows it."
An innocent girl, short blonde hair and chilling blue eyes, a pixie in all ways but twinkle: "I find decisions are the hardest things to make. In time I'll find making love the easiest."
Two years later, Barbara, who'd thrown the little gathering, read an article in the paper about a bearded man known as a loather of art, a frail and sickly woman selling precious jewelry at ridiculously and desperately low amounts of money (blasphemous, Barbara had tutted when she read that ad), and a washed-up lady who had seven children with seven different men.
What the newspaper didn't say was all three of those incidents had everything to do with each other. Everything meets down the road.
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