Nan stared at the blank wall across from the bed while half-listening to an anecdote about the oddly static weirdness that apparently went on in the dormitories. It really bugged her that there was no crappy painting hanging there, like there would be in your average "no-tell motel". A cheap K-mart print of some smudged European scene with the impasto and canvas texture faithfully reproduced. She idly wondered what style would best suit this prison playpen.
Gaspar had shown her examples of inmate art, mostly done on envelopes. Major motifs seemed to be walls, wire, chains, clocks, and calendar pages. People in the artwork tended to be fierce, noble outlaws with bulging muscles or doe-eyed, buxom women wearing nothing but perhaps an occasional gang sign. She'd have to think of what art "ism" would work here. It could be a "School", she thought. Temporalism? Maximalism? She already knew what sort of literature would find favor: Escapism.
A twist in the story caught her attention and she laughed. "He didn't really say that," she said.
"Swear to God," Gaspar held up his hand and placed the other on an invisible bible hovering in midair. "Then this Rivera guy from H Block sticks his head in and says "That'll feel better when it stops hurting".
Nan laughed again, holding her soda can against the side of her face, where strands from her short brunette wig were starting to stick to her cheek. "You've got a pretty wacky clubhouse here, all right."
"We're very carefully selected." He sipped his soda, seemed to consider pouring it over his head. "By invitation only."
"A real elite." She pushed her hair back with both hands and turned to face him. "Look, we're running short of face time here. Maybe we better get down and get dirty before checkout time."
"Yeah," he replied tonelessly. "Boy, it's hot for that stuff, though. We're already sweating like pigs."
"Excuse me?" She gave the words the full Queen Latifah treatment. "Women don't sweat. We glow. Pigs do not glow."
He nodded a mock apology and she gave his shoulder a light punch. "I would have thought you jailbirds would kill for a shot a real-life hot, wet woman."
"Well, sure," Gaspar hastened to say. "I mean, just look at you."