eating alone without something to read

It was crowded at the MFA courtyard cafe yesterday, and as I honed in on my creamy tomato soup, I couldn’t help eavesdropping on the people sitting next to me; the tables were close together. To my right, a couple?brotherandsister? talked about art, and in my head, I was editing them. “I once saw an Andy Warhol exhibit. In Pittsburgh, you know?” [Editor’s note: Andy Warhol is FROM Pittsburgh, so it wasn’t an exhibit; it was a permanent museum]. “So do you like his stuff?” “Whose?” “Andy Warhol. Do you like his stuff?” [Editor’s note: how the hell can you just say you like his “stuff” when it encompasses so much? Clearly these two weren’t familiar with his early days as a shoe illustrator, or his disaster series, or the factory. Or, maybe i think about Andy Warhol too much]
The people to my left were two middle-aged women. I caught snippets from one of them: “He told us he had his first kiss on Cape Cod last summer. Of course it had to be the girl staying with us for a week; her parents weren’t around. They went for a walk on the beach.” “Kids these days know way more about sex than we think they do.”
The couple to my right were getting up. “I say we look at one more painting, then call it a day.”
[Real art lovers, these two.]

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