The bastard has probably gone to pee in a bush.

Nora pulls up her socks and sets out across the field alone. As she gets closer, she hears the clink of wine glasses and conversations. She readies a smile. There is the smell of cow shit and honeysuckle but a musky potentiality, too. The semi-famous structural artist stands near the silo, talking with a collaborator.

Seeing him is so exciting that Nora stands agape. The artist is exquisite. Small, tightly constructed, he is a miniature Modernist masterpiece: his body a display of cool-headed restraint. Sinews  stand out like steel against his skin, which glows in a flickering orange light. After a moment, she sees the glow is coming from the silo. Finally: The Installation.

The silo is indeed burning, just as the postcard invitation had promised, but it's not at all how she had pictured it. What had she pictured? A massive torch. A beast of heat. Something epic, terrifying, dazzling. In her mind’s eye, she had seen it! She had seen it rising up into the sky, an untamable blast, un-ignorable and lighting up the countryside for miles around.

Instead, the artist has selected an older silo, the kind with a conical frame of thin steel. The artist has thrown open the wide doors at the bottom and inside there is a wide, smoldering fire. The frame of the silo has crumpled over from the heat and it sits like a floppy witch’s hat. 

Inside the dark silo, the fire is huge. Thirty feet away, Nora feels its heat. She feels everything: she is right at the beating cusp of her world! The artist burns in her brain like a Flavin installation. Her socks have fallen down but she hardly feels the wet grass on her ankles as she moves toward the artist, his heavy fog of florid potentiality carrying her body forward.