Dean screamed at us. No, I have NO INTEREST in seeing the cheese room. A squat angry Greek with dark circles beneath his eyes, he paced back and forth, hands thrust into filthy jeans. I don't call that art. You can call it anything you want, but I don't call it art. Like Vesuvius, the eruption was over in a minute. Charred skeletons stared blankly into their terminals. Paul whispered, it's probably best you don't mention it again.

Our faces were flushed with shame. All we wanted to do was share the glory. The mystery. All we wanted was to invite him, to sit down and break cheese with us.