Swan.

Virtually every time I went to the Art Institute of Chicago, I spent a few minutes looking at Leda and its simple, swelling lines.

In 1994, Lissa and I went with Adam, a towheaded, broadshouldered aspiring filmmaker, to the opening night of "Pulp Fiction."

I still was interested in Lissa, and I asked what her favorite piece was in the Art Institute. 

"Leda," she said, as we drove over a vertiginous bump on Lake Shore Drive that sometimes made my stomach sink.