I’m walking down the stairs and I turn to look back and I’m walking down
the stairs, my legs following my legs by just a fraction of a second. I look ahead and there I am again, slightly in front of where I am now. I reach bottom and all of my pieces come together.
“Whoa,” my wife says. “For a minute there, you looked just like Nude Descending a Staircase.”
“I felt that way,” I answer. “Except I’m wearing clothes.” I look at her oval face, framed in black hair. She’s smiling, but enigmatically so, her pursed lips just barely lifting up at the corners. “So Mona-like,” I think.
“How about lunch?” she asks and we walk into the kitchen. There’s a nice bowl of fruit, artfully arranged just like a Peale (or is it Braque?) sitting right next to a Picasso Compote Dish and Pitcher. I smack my lips when suddenly the whole thing blurs and the objects on the table go flying off, a knife coming towards me, a bottle of water slipping off to the left and the glass dishes floating in mid-air. “Holy Nature Morte Vivante,” I think, my appetite suddenly gone. I never was much a fan of Dali.
We go outside instead. The lake has fogged over like September Morn and I think for a moment I see someone bathing in it but, no, that can’t be and then the sun is out, all purple curves and yellow shards straight out of Lichtenstein. I can see a Wyeth boat in the slip of to our left and I get an impression of some Water Lilies floating nearby. The garden is in full bloom and I bend down to look at a giant O’Keefe which kind of creeps me out.
“Let’s go,” I say and as we are walking down the hill a giant black Calder 
swoops down, forcing us to duck. We hurry along, coming to a lovely Renoir garden party. We pull up a table and watch the festivities. Out on the water, a mother and child -- is that Mary Cassat? -- are rowing towards shore. Crowds sit along the bank enjoying the Seurat Afternoon and at a distance I see some dim Matisse figures dancing.
“This isn’t bad,” I think when suddenly the world turns Pollack -- I think it’s Number 27 -- all blacks, whites and yellows.
I blink and a little puppy dog is running towards me. “How cute,” I think, looking at its saucer-like eyes. A boy and girl tag along and their eyes too are wide open, their faces cherubic and cheeks blushed. The crowds by the riverbank all look the same, bright and happy, wide-eyed and mop-haired. I can’t place it. Baldwin? Baker? Or just generic poster art?
I feel nauseous. “Too much cuteness,” I think, desperate for a way to make it go away. I open my mouth, preparing to let forth a wail of despair, hoping a little Munch will take the edge off. But nothing comes out and the world darkens, Starry Night above filled with roiling clouds and my skin begins to crawl. I look at my arms and they seem covered in fine, black fur. I look at my wife and it seems the same has happened to her. “What’s this?” I ask, reaching out. It’s soft, tactile -- ohmigod, it’s black velvet. I feel my body stiffen and I can no longer move.
A couple comes into view, a man and woman arm-in-arm. “Oh this one’s great,” the man says, looking at my wife and me. He picks us up to examine us, rubbing his fingers over the velvet. “It’ll look terrific under black light,” she says.
“Absolutely,” he answers. He takes out his wallet and pays.