You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening.                  
                                                                               
There is only one exhibit.  She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you: 
a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a    
pool at her feet.  She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a
formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty 
pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction --                      
                                                                               
You hesitate, about to turn away.  Her hand balls into a fist.                 
                                                                               
"They told me you were coming."