Legs McNeil loomed over their table, a figure of chaotic energy, his presence an assault on the senses. His hand descended on Noah’s shoulder like a vulture’s talon.

“And who’s this? Your girlfriend? Or perhaps your latest victim?”

Noah laughed nervously, “Woe, friend, I’m just here for the pasta.”

Noah Savett was 14 years old in 1964, a boy of quiet intensity, his mind already a labyrinth of surreal forms and existential musings. His body, honed by hours in the pool, carried an unconscious magnetism that seemed to draw women to him in ways he could not yet understand.

In the early years of Noah Savett’s creative rise, when youth filled him with bold confidence, Noah conceived an installation that whispered of the surreal—a transient cathedral of air and thought, known as Inflatable Mondella.

It was the mid-1980s, an era where whiskey sour fountains were the height of indulgence, and the air at weddings hung heavy with the mingled scents of freshly curled hair and perfumed ambition.

Such love is rarely kind. Lisa, intoxicated by the thrill of Noah’s untamed ways, soon grew weary of them. Her gaze wandered, settling on Paulie, a so-called friend whose betrayal would cut deeper than Noah’s own bitterness. What followed was an eruption of anger—a storm of shouted words and shattered silences. Lisa, defiant and cruel, pursued what her heart desired. Noah, smoldering with fury, gave no quarter.

Sophie Johnson didn’t see him, not yet, and that irked him. The flame of her hair burned against the sterile backdrop of white chairs and green grass. He wondered who she was. A cousin? A friend? Someone’s third wife-to-be? No matter. He decided then and there that she should see him.