The woman, from behind, looked like something Seurat might have painted on a Sunday afternoon in 1884. Or a young Coco Chanel waiting on a pontoon, dressed in her trademark simple hat, boxy jersey, and flat shoes. Her fashion underscored a deliberate and aggressive counter statement to modern trends: a seemingly mis-matched Parisian bourgeoisie–a Madame Tutli Putli–with a delicate handbag waiting for something or someone to arrive; a living time traveller among twenty-first century zombies glued to hand held electronic devices. A young man in a summer suit approached and gently took her by the elbow. She was not surprised. Seurat’s brush went to work furiously. The couple engaged in whispered conversation, which quickly escalated into demure but animated contortions. It was a brilliant exercise in harnessed, controlled anger dispensed elegantly and swiftly as through a narrow funnel aimed at the throat. The man lifted up on her elbow. They’re quarreling, said the tiger. I know, be quiet, the painter said and worked the brush tip furiously into the canvas. He swatted at a mosquito attracted by his sweat and carbon dioxide. The natural bristles poked the material with the same urgency and virulence of its subjects’ quiet, public fight. The tiger gibed: your world is ruled by plants and cats; it’s not so beautiful as you make it. Seurat swatted again. And bugs, he said. Always bugs. Bugs from the beginning. The animal shifted. You don’t validate botany, he said. You should. All you know is how to make people from colored dots. Alors, look they’re going! Help me tidy up. No. Seurat began to break down the portable easel. Torpid little feline, he said. How can this world be ruled by such indolent animals? Allez, allez, they’re leaving, see? The tiger stretched on his front paws. I’m not going, he said. There is nothing interesting about any of this.