Stan Lee (1922-2018)
“Why did you come here?” Greg Ogden queried his ex-wife Flo. “You know I’m with Mr. Babyface now. Oil me up and all.”
“I know. I’m kind of cool with all that actually. You and The Face. You and *you* and The Face.”
“Middletown’s where it’s at, Flo. Treasure Hill. We get oiled up, we paint, we gear down by looking at the bay, then the next day we start over again. Over and over. And over.”
“And when you’re finished… you’re the monster?”
“Sometimes.” He pauses. “Often,” he admits, which was a lesser lie.
Flo pondered this, guessing it was more than he let on. “You paint to stay sane, then.”
“Maybe,” he replied reflexively. Greg turned, stared at the apartment’s media input with Flo. “‘Hidden Vilage’ is you, you know,” he says, referring to his geometric work portrayed on the screen, completed almost a year ago.
“Red yellow blue perfection. But…”
“… there’s always green to contend with,” she finishes.
Banished to the upstairs apartment, am I, while he and the ex talk. Well (he sighs), might as well make good use of it instead of being all jealous and green eyed, I suppose. Study this Big E again — been a while. Let’s see, where’s Xilted on it again?
Ah so. On the other side. Must spin it around.