A room.
Two entrances.
No doors.
Her ashen face resembled a pock-marked sky from one of the Corot painting in the adjacent gallery.
Precise steps. Miserly eyes.
Kind of tightwad who treated her dogs better than her own offspring. Pure chow-chow. The most cherished possessions. The center of her universe.
No dogs allowed.
She reminded the Director that her late-great husband gifted him a new wing, a Chagall, and two De Koonings.
The Director wouldn't budge on his stance. Shakedown time. Unless she provided funding for another new wing and a couple of early Picassos and a late period Matisse.
The director suspiciously passed away. In his sleep. Choked. His own vomit.
The new director met her halfway. She and her dogs was allowed a private viewing twice a week. Once before hours and once after hours. Tuesday morning and Thursday evening.
She arrived every morning. 90 minutes before the front doors opened. Herself, her attendant, and her chow-chows.
She slowly made her way through each room. The same route. The dogs were well behaved and never soiled the floors.
Well fed canines. Meals fit for a king. Supper each night cost more than the chef made in a week. Six days of wages fed a his three kids, wife, and mother-in-law out in Queens.
Feed two dogs for a night, or feed six people for a week.
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