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Doing Nothing

It was a book club conversation conducted under an unsigned but athenticated original Matisse. 

They were to be discussing The Short Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao but there wasn't much enthusiasm.  All agreed it was a wonderful book and worth reading but little more was being said.  Perhaps it was because the person who nominated the book wasn't present, leaving the others a little chuffed about her absence. She was away because her daughter was leaving the nice morning, a good reason, easily accepted.  Still, she'd insisted on swapping months with someone else and after all that, she wasn't here to talk about the book she recommended.

Two commenced a conversation about encountering one another in Bloomsbury's.  They enjoyed the moment, celebrating it as pure serendipity, a chance encounter of two book club members running into one another in a book store.  Each had been wandering around, doing nothing, which delighted them.

"I love doing nothing," one said and the other agreed, "Doing nothing is great.  I so enjoy days when I do nothing."

"I want to do nothing," the third said. 

"I don't know if you know how to do nothing," the second said.

"I know how to do nothing," the third said.  "Just ask my friends.  They'll tell you that I often do nothing."

"Okay, let's make a date to get together and do nothing," the first suggested.  "Where and when shall we meet to do nothing?"

So plans were made to do nothing together before resuming discussion of The Short Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.