"You do realize what kind of exhibition this is, right?" you ask. "What kind of exhibition?" she asks stupidly. "It's an art exhibition. I'm art."

("I'm art." That is fantastic!)

Following Dionysus:

in the darkness, drums and flutes    on the ground honey and a sweet flow of wine       and all around dancers, hands and eyes

(Whoa. The last transmission from the rational part of the brain. Eerie.)

The most awesome ending ever:

"Why don't you take off that dress?" you suggest (in what you hope is a casual tone of voice.) She puts a hand on your shoulder, leans down, and whispers in your ear: "It's sewn on. But if you know of someplace quiet where there's a pair of scissors..."

(Holy smokes. That is really fucking sexy. I honestly cannot recall reading anything more sexy. And again, Galatea is Not Like Us: it's sewn on! So let's find some scissors! Heavens to freaking Betsy.)

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