The exhibition was at one of the galleries downtown that Joe had always thought too pretentious to bother learning more about, the sort of place he’d assumed people paid more money than he earned in a year for a sculpture of a paper clip made out of Styrofoam that was supposed to decry modern office sensibilities or some s**t like that.
Instead, he walked into a room that felt like someone’s living room. Specifically, someone’s grandmother’s living room. Rich carpets covered the floor, with overstuffed couches covered in doilies anywhere he could possibly want to sit and some places he couldn’t imagine anyone would want to settle. The scuffed oak end tables had hurricane lamp lighting and knickknacks up the wazoo, and in one corner sat an old stereoadio console, with the top propped open
