He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, from far enough back to take it all in. She wandered over to introduce herself.
He didn't give her the opportunity. "How much?"
She repressed the urge to chuckle. "Well, they say if one has to ask, one—"
"Sixty thousand, not counting delivery costs, insurance, fees."
"He's dying, you know."
"Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Two months, maybe three. When he goes, it'll double in value. I'm amazed you haven't adjusted your price."
She seethed silently, face frozen. Eventually, she said, "I apologize, I was incorrect; this painting is not for sale."