Tearing my eyes away from the painting, I asked, "What's it called?" walking away, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do.
From behind me, I could still feel the painting calling out to me, my eyes itching for another glance.
"You… you mean the name?" my host stuttered. I was certain my words rang loud and true, so why was she acting dumb?
"What else would I be asking of?" I chided, "every piece has a name, doesn't it or is theirs a radical?" I emphasized by pointing to the supposed artists.
I didn't believe for a second that they painted that. And from the way they were shifting closer to their mother who swallowed nervously, I couldn't be more right.
I just needed the name so that I could look it up, perhaps get to know the real artist and her other works.
"It's called Garden, Sir" Sofia said, just as her stepmom opened her mouth to speak.
