Who: Helen, George (NPC), and OPEN What: Leaving the museum after a visit Where: Outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art When: Mid-afternoon
"That didn't come out the way I intended it to!" George Lowell was surprisingly agile for a man of his years, and he jogged down the steps of the Met in pursuit of the woman who still managed to outpace him while wearing three-inch heels.
When she reached the sidewalk, Helen stopped and turned around to face her assistant. Hands on her hips, she leveled a cool glare at him. "Didn't it? So when you said "For someone who predates all these sculptures, you're in much better condition than they are," you didn't mean to say that for someone so horrifically old I ought to be falling apart?" She didn't worry about anyone overhearing their conversation; this was New York, after all. People had stranger conversations with themselves all the time. Nobody would pay attention to what seemed to be a lover's spat -- though technically, they weren't lovers. He'd just always been George, so much more than a lover even when she met him as a teenager.
Fond memories would not help George plead his case, however. "Helen, you know very well I didn't mean it like that. It was merely a comment on the futility of belief in eternity. Every artist thinks his work will last forever, and here we are thousands of years later looking at the fragments of their once-great works. Here you are, still as beautiful as you ever were -- you're the only work of art to remain truly timeless," he said placatingly.
Helen beamed and patted his arm fondly. "Why yes, I am a work of art. Shall we go?" She strode to the curb, preparing to hail a cab, when the brisk wind on her arm reminded her that she didn't have her jacket. "Georgie, be a love and go get my coat, will you? I left it in the coat check. I'll wait right here." As her assistant left, she ascended several steps and sat down, crossing her ankles and watching the crowds of people going past. At least there was always some form of excitement in this town.