THAT SAME NIGHT. They get two cups of coffee at a small diner on Chicago Avenue and begin to plan their violent art movement together. It will be called the Art Terrorists. Or the Art Brutes. Or maybe just the Anti-Rationalists. And they discuss these names, straightfaced, as Odile pours two creams and three sugars into her coffee. And then she looks up at Jack pensively and says: “You know, those are some really weird-looking glasses.” She points to her own face and makes a ghastly expression, as if she has been forced to wear them. “What did you do to them?” Jack touches the fingers of his left hand to the frames of the black glasses and shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve broken them a few times, I guess. I was wearing them when I had my last bike accident.” “Oh. Well, I think they’re pretty awesome. In a fucked-up sort of way.” Jack nods, unsure what that compliment actually means.
