The Obstultancy of Unearned Wealth

Standing porcine at the Soho gallery’s opening night, Burton was free with his opinions. Although he knew little about art. And had never heard of this season’s fresh, must-see talent. He was a heavy man, marked with a drunk’s rosacea. When he talked, which was most of the time, he droned with monotonic, unintelligent certainty - sucking the light out of the r00m like a mindless black hole.

If pressed to speak well of her husband - how had the sparkling young man she once loved become this ponderous oaf? - Luciana would offer the sardonic compliment that he was an equal opportunity boor. Many of the chattering New York arrivistes, striving to be seen, would agree.

Without regard to color, creed, or convictions, all who approached the crush pressing against the caterer's table, laden with the sponsor’s gin and predictable canapés, were potential victims of Burton’s lectures. Once trapped in his orbit, any attempt at levity was crushed by his gravity.

He was blind to wit, irony, and flirtation and never listened. He believed his inherited wealth was proof of his moral value. Luciana did not mind the money. She had grown up poor where olives grow, and never wanted to feel dirt under her fingernails again.

Alcohol had eased her burden. Her oft-sotted husband rarely creased her sheets. And later tonight she would caress the firm flesh of her youthful inamorato. This season’s fresh, must-see talent. A lithe lover, attentive to her conversation.