Ignoring the ‘no smoking’ signs, Milo pulled out a slim cigarette out of a shiny chrome case and waited for one of the members of his entourage to offer a light. He could hear people scrambling behind him and graciously found something interesting to look at until a lighter could be produced. Finally someone succeeded in what he privately thought should be a relatively simple task, and he glided down the hallway, taking long, slow drags and blowing smoke toward the ceiling as he went.
He never spoke a word to anyone, but every so often he would stop, bringing his followers to a screeching halt behind him, and snap his fingers before pointing at an individual who had in some way captured his attention. That was all the cue his ‘friends’ needed; someone in the party would inevitably scurry forward and offer up a business card with his name, and nothing else, printed neatly in the center. Just four little letters, but that card signaled his approval, and Milo thought there was nothing more important than his good opinion of the people at this little gathering.
Of course everyone knew who he was – he was sure of it, and in fact he was quite confident that he could hear whispers as he passed. Words like ‘genius’, ‘eccentric’, and ‘handsome’ reached his ears, and he couldn’t imagine they could mean anyone else but him.
God, he was handsome.
Sighing absently, he gave the last room a bored look and put his cigarette out in what he thought was an ashtray but might, upon closer examination, have been a priceless sculpture. It was time for him to return to his own portion of the show, to have another tiresome conversation with more tiresome people about his own tiresome art.