She carved a serpentine path through the dense crowd, never once losing sight of her victim.
As the Countess closed in, she heard him boast about a recent sexual conquest. He had that off-putting youthful swagger, that unearned self-confidence. Detestable.
“Have you been appreciating this Vermeer?” she asked, gazing up at the Baroque masterpiece. “It’s one of his finest, a work of true genius.”
The boy didn’t bother to look.
“Not really. All this art crap isn’t for me. I’m just here for the free drinks and the food,” he answered.
The Countess nodded, smiled.
This one would be perfect.
The Weekday One Hundred 