“It’s all a load of hooey, Clark.” Lois was incensed. “No one can paint the future.”
Strangely quiet, Clark said “That woman in the painting looked a lot like you.”
“It was a cartoon, Clark. All brunette women look alike in cartoons. Did you see what he had me doing?”
“You look good in a spacesuit, Lois.”
“The man was on drugs! I saw track marks on his arm!”
“Is it the idea of you in space, or the other thing?” Clark’s voice sounded amused.
“He painted a man flying in space without a spacesuit….wearing his underwear on the outside. Would you call that sane?”
“Well, maybe it’s a metaphor for something.”
Lois stopped in the middle of the street, ignoring the honking noises from a nearby cab.
“Why did you pull him over and talk to him?”
“Well, I needed a little something for my mantle.”
Gasping, Lois said, “You didn’t!”
Clark shrugged, then smirked. “I’m a sucker for kitsch.”
“I’m never inviting anyone over to your house again!”
“When did you ever invite anyone to my apartment in the first place? You don’t exactly wait to be invited yourself.”
“I can see why you are still single, Kent.” Lois said. “It’s a good thing that I don’t let little things like locks get in the way of me and a story. Unfortunately, that wasn’t it.”
Clark glanced back toward the painter’s loft thinking.
A cape and red boots. It hadn’t looked half bad.
If it just weren’t for all those paintings of explosions and people with their skulls cut off.
