In the museum where you dropped your earring, dust gathers like an eager crowd at a movie premiere. You are Cinderella played by Scarlett Johansson, I am an out-of-work Marcello Mastroianni, my scooter in pieces in my cold water apartment, and the dust is bustling for autographs and selfies. Figures clipped from sewing patterns lean from windows, waving in the breeze, calling down imperial measurements in primary coloured voices, but their encouragements and imprecations are lost in the excited dusty chatter. Behind us, rooms open up into rooms, each hushed with the sanctity of Dutch Masters and space exploration. You look one last time for your dropped earring, but see nothing but paint and stars, so we check our imprimatura and the seals on our EVA suits, entrust ourselves to flashbulbs and layer upon layer of dust.