We were in an open-air restaurant with our closest friends. It was already dark. Crowded around a long table, we talked cheerfully after a good dinner. I was sitting on one side of the table and talking to a few people. Lauren was on the other side. Suddenly, there was a commotion somewhere behind me. Lauren raised her voice, got up, grabbed a large pitcher of ice-water from a nearby serving table, and tossed its contents at the people around the table. Then she marched away in anger. I remember hearing the sound of ice-cubes bouncing of plates, bottles, chairs. A few people near the middle of the table got drenched, but most got only a little splash here and there. I felt cold water on my lower back, but I just continued talking. I remember touching my lower back and feeling my soggy clothes. I was wearing a light summer suit, which I actually had not worn for at least five years. As I was waking up, I tried to understand the reason for Lauren’s outburst. I felt it had to do with me. I surmised that Lauren was annoyed with our friends because of their sympathy with my growing disenchantment with the art world, if not art itself.