I th1nk about it every day...

"Mildly disinterested."
That's all she said, as she snowed along the aisle, stopping here and there to take deep, steep, lingering breathes, and then letting them go in a tot-tit-tot cough progression, bugging her eyes up and in her skull. She was beautiful for and old old one.
"I've better offers in my day. This looks like the scratchings of a cloaked insane man, on the breach of his last neil."
"Neil?" I asked, somewhat vivasiously. This might be a compliment. That's all I needed- one good get-up-and-go, for my art career to take off. One lit match in the face of sheer hopelessness. That's all I had at the time- hopelessness. Of course, I'd go camping with my friends out by the baseball field when the nights got really cold and the wind picked up, and I never said "no," to company, but still. The art was atrocious, or so I'd been told. And after all that college tuition and sloppy girlfriends.
"Neil. Simon. The worst playwrite of the twentieth century," She breathed, running her finger along the outside of her nose with a long, overdue slice. "His work makes yours look good."
"Oi." I picked up my oily rags and barnacle brushes. I tiptoed into a CPA firm and hid my tears in the works of Tom Clancy and some Italian poet named Nuitti. Then I read Neil Simon for the first time, twenty years later. That stupid old art critic didn't know what she was harking to. Simon could draw!