We're in the bookstore, my friend and I, looking through a book about Baryshnikov. Lately he's been in her ballet class, and I'm more enchanted with that than with the images in the book. She, however, is fixated on the two-dimensional representation. "Oh god, it's so sad," she says, pointing to one photo. "Look how old he is." She flips back to a photo of him from 27 years ago. "From this," she says, admiringly, "to ... this," she says sadly. Where is the tragedy? I ask her. I think he's even more beautiful now. But she can't see any beauty.