.

I was walking through the Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue on a “Members’ Only
Monday Morning.” The paintings were shapes and colors, nothing looking like anything in
particular. If you were looking for naked women, forget it. The Metropolitan Museum a half mile
down Fifth Avenue had plenty. None here.
I was working my way slowly up the inclined spiral ramp through a special showing of
Solomon Guggenheim’s private collection. I peered at a Kandinsky. A bright explosion of
colors and forms. Swirling toward him from another space one. Or from inside the artist.
Perplexing but fascinating. Lines and colors, I thought. Colors and lines, L\lines and colors,
they must mean something. But what? I scratched my head.
I looked away from the Kandinsky, glancing across the great void of the museum, and a
girl a level above me caught my eye. She seemed to be looking at me, then glanced away. I
thought I remembered her from the cloakroom when I checked my jacket.
I turned back to the paintings, pausing before them, one by one, a few Maleviches. One
was his famous red and black square. Then a diamond shaped Mondrian, a Kupka I thought I
almost understood. Almost. My family has a collection of religious art, and, like any collector, I
know something about my own collection, but not so much about modern art, and my mother
and I think we ought to learn more. Our art consultant had been urging us to diversify our
collection. And I had been developing some theories of my own about abstract art. Not quite
developed.
A girl was blocking my view of the next painting. I looked over her shoulder. She was
staring at a delicate composition of red, yellow, and blue. Yes, it was that girl.
She was shaking. Rocking back and forth. “Something wrong?” I whispered. She spun
around and wrapped her arms around me, her face on my shoulder, her body pressed against
mine. She looked up at me and blinked. I recognized her as the girl I had spotted looking at me
across the atrium. Shoulder length blond hair. Dark eyebrows and lashes. Black turtle-neck
sweater and jeans. Eye-catchingly attractive. The face and figure of a Russian tennis player.
“Who are you?” she blurted, her accent completely American.
“Who do you think I am?”

She wiped her face on my sport coat. “Somebody with my tears on his coat.” She gave
my lapels her attention. She looked at me, with a grin. “Some snot too. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
“I’m okay now. You can let go.”
I didn’t want to but released her. Reluctantly. “You still want to know who I am?”
“Okay.”
“My name is Joe. And don’t worry. Those aren’t the first tears on my jacket.”
“What about snot?”
“That too.”
“Oh, don't tell me I'm in love with a philanderer?”
Kind of a quick shift from tragedy to comedy, I thought.
“Okay, I won't tell you I'm a philanderer. And what's this about being in love with me.
That was quick.”
“That all depends on if you tell me if you're a philanderer. I couldn’t love a philanderer.”
“Not saying.”
“Why not?”
“That's my secret. I thought, Let’s see how long we can keep this going. “I will tell you
that I'm a wastrel.”
“Well then, you're my first wastrel.”
Can think on her feet, I thought. “Probably not. Just the first one who confessed.”
“‘Scuse, me. My nose is runny again.”
“Don't worry. They said this was stain resistant.”
“They say anything about a girlfriend’s nose drippings? And tears.”
“I don't remember. What's this about being my girlfriend? My real girlfriend might have
something to say about that.”
“She’ll just have to suck it up. I'm your girlfriend now. Crying on your shoulder gives
me some rights. By the way, nice shoulder.”
“Thanks. And what do I get out of being your boyfriend?”
“Not saying.”
“No kisses? No hugs? No nothing?”
“Nope.” I hoped she didn’t mean that.

“My other girlfriend is a better deal. By the way, I think what happened just now
qualifies as a hug. How about another?”
She shook her head. “Does she know you're a wastrel? Have you told her?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Then your relationship is based on a lie. Time for a do over with a girl who knows your
secret shame. By the way, what's a wastrel?”
“Someone who lives off his mom’s money. And does what he pleases.”
“And what pleases you?”
“You’ll have to get to know me a lot better.”
“Fine. You are my first self-confessed wastrel. Sounds like a great fit. You're a wastrel
and I wish I were one.” She was funny. I already liked her.
“This all sounds too good to be true. I’ll have to tell mom I've traded the milky white
cow for a magic bean.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“The milky white cow – my girlfriend. The magic bean – you.” I lost her on that one.
“This is the deal of your life.”
Better reel her back in. “I can tell this isn't the first deal you've ever done. It's my first
magic bean deal.”
“Poor baby.”
“My mom told me a long time ago, Joe, you’re a rich kid, people are going to be coming
to you with great deals. Before you sign, bring it to me so I can get in on it. So, let's go see her
tomorrow. You tell her what you've just told me. Ditch my girlfriend. No hugs. No kisses. Watch
out, she's a standard mom who thinks her boy shouldn't be deprived, girl-wise. Just saying.”
“I can handle her.”
Let’s see if she can. I took out a scrap of paper and scribbled on it. “Here's her address.
Tomorrow. Eight o’clock.
I walked over to the painting she had been crying over. Colorful spirals, a yellow oval
angled to the right, ribbons of white, red, and blue lines swirling. “Hilla Rebay,” I read. “A Lost
Memory of a Sudden Rush of Devotion in the Fourth Dimension, 1925.” I looked closer. It was
actually a collage, tiny, pasted pieces of colored paper.

Hmm, I thought. So that’s a lost memory. In the fourth dimension, no less. And it made
her cry. She must know what it means. Interesting girl. I didn’t know then how interesting she
would turn out to be.