on the wall,
  by their table,
  hangs a gaudy
  portrait of a large,
  pinkish woman
  whose upper lips
  seems far too
  pronounced.

this leads them into
  conversation…
  not of this less than
  attractive lady,
  so much as the
  art of portraiture.

one argues about style…
  ageless traditions…
  lighting and the likes.
the other,
  a flamboyant sort,
  speaks of the
  essence of the
  subject’s being…
  of spontenaity…
  and of the convenience
  of a snapshop
  (much to the horror of
  his friend).

it is obvious from their
  discussion, that both
  are familiar with
  the subject matter…
  and i, from some
  three tables away,
  cannot help but think
  that this conversation
  would look amazing
  in oil on canvas.

and the irony escapes them.

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