Vera returned to the scene of the crime with Sean. Miami Beach and the Art Basel Art Fair. This time she was alone and taking in the scene of German, British and French dealers now selling to Russians and Eastern Europeans and Scandinavians who had come to enjoy the sun and bask in there new-found "importance."
She loved seeing the swagger of over-top-money lubricated out of its pockets for art concepts that one could barely explain short of a few cocktails. The Brazilians were more calculating. Knowing that they would not part with their cash, they dressed to the hilt, tans and silicone boobs all ranked out, snorted coke and bought nothing. The South Americans were exasperating for the Europeans if only for their colossal ability to distract other paying clients from closing deals.
What was beautiful was the way that the Brits were cold in shutting them out, raking in their take and then heading for the beach. Just as Sean had done. The French were to epitome of diplomacy always gently explaining that they were busy and showing the South Americans the door. The Germans were forthright, and forward and simply told the Samba Crew that they were out of their league and then ignored them.
Vera loved the great culture clashes that smashed together people around art and ideas and money. Most evenings, alone, thinking of Andre, she drank Mojitos overlooking the pool where she'd swam with Sean and then cuddled in the sun. It was what was and now she needed to face the next morning.