sucked on her fingers. “So what’s our next activity, Mr. I’m-going-to-convince-you-to-live?”
Shit. I hadn’t actually thought beyond my ice cream gambit.
I’ll tell you when I get back from the bathroom, I wrote.
“I’ll be waiting.”
As soon as I was out of Zelda’s line of sight, I took out my phone.
Hey, Alana, I typed, I need your help. I’m looking for shit to do with Zelda. Like, romantic shit.
I was lucky; Alana started typing a response only a few seconds later.
You guys are still hanging out? Must’ve been a good night. You wanna share the details? Or maybe some pics?
I’m in a hurry.
Sorry. Take her to the Golden Gate Bridge. Gets ’em every time.
I don’t think that’s going to work here. Long story. Next idea.
How about a museum? Zelda seemed like the artsy type. You ever been to the Legion of Honor?
No, but she probably has. I’m looking for something she hasn’t done before.
Museums don’t work that way, Santé. Great art rewards repeated viewings. It gets deeper every time, like that scotch she gave us. By the way, you think she has any more of that shit?
Was Alana right? Could art be the exception to the law of diminishing returns?
Gotta run, I texted. I’ll try the Legion. Thanks.
No worries, player. Lemme know how it goes.
When I got back to the dome, Zelda was just pulling her phone out of her purse. I jogged over and plucked it out of her hand.
“You took forever,” she said.
S-o-r-r-y, I finger spelled.
“And did you figure out where we’re headed?”
M-u-s-e-u-m.
“Museum,” she translated. “Hey, I’m getting pretty good at that, aren’t I?”
With one hand, I gave her a thumbs-up. With the other, I casually slipped her phone—still set to “Do Not Disturb”—back into her purse.
PORTRAIT OF A LADY LOOKING AT A PORTRAIT
IT WAS ONLY A FIFTEEN-MINUTE cab ride from Smitten to the museum, and Zelda was onto the plan within the first five.
“I love the Legion of Honor,” she said, just as the car was turning up Divisadero. “They have this wonderful painting of Paolo and Francesca. Do you know them?”
I shook my head.
“Dante wrote about them. They were doomed to float around on the winds of the second circle of hell because they’d allowed themselves to be slaves to lust during their lives.”
H-o-t, I finger spelled.
“Isn’t it, though? Hey, what’s the sign for lust, anyway?”
I made the sign: a line drawn downward from chin to chest.
“How tame. What about sex?”
I put the sign for the letter x at the top of my cheek and slid it toward my chin.
“God, that’s so disappointing. Isn’t there slang or something?”
There was a more visually descriptive sign for sex, though it corresponded to a slightly less appropriate word. I made peace signs with both hands, simulating a couple of bunny rabbits, then bashed them together over and over again.
Zelda laughed. “Well, that’s to the point.”
The car pulled to a stop in front of a dirty stone fountain. From afar, the museum looked Greek (or maybe Roman—honestly, I have no idea what the difference is), with big stone arches and columns everywhere. A few tourists stood at the edge of the property, taking photos of the far-off Golden Gate Bridge, which didn’t look so much golden as rusty. We got out of the car and walked a long cement path that led under an archway and into a broad arcade. Dead center was a bronze sculpture that I actually recognized. It was that famous one, of the guy resting his head on his fist.
“The Thinker,” Zelda said. “The original is in France, of course, but I suppose one casting is as good as another. I’ve always found it rather insipid.”
He looks like somebody trying to solve all the world’s problems while sitting on the toilet, I wrote in my journal.
Zelda laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? And now I’ll never be able to see it any other way. Thanks for that.”
I tipped an imaginary cap.
Just inside the building, an old woman sat working the ticket desk. She had a flowered brooch pinned to her sweater, right next to her name tag: GLADYS.
“Are you two students?” she asked.
I looked to Zelda, but she’d buried her nose in some pamphlet describing the museum’s current exhibit.
“Hello?” Gladys said. “Are you students?”
I nodded.
“That’s a yes?”
I nodded again.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I nodded a third time.
Gladys frowned. “I don’t have to let you in, you know, if civility is beyond your capabilities. This is a private museum.”
I put my journal up on the desk and wrote: I’m not being a