by Paul Cwalina
“See anything you like?” she asked.
Her voice shocked me out of the stare.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” I said.
Uh-oh.
She was playfully forgiving. “Oops. No, no. I’m Chelsea.”
I felt terrible. I shut my eyes and shook my head, “I am so sorry, Chelsea.”
“That’s okay. Is Sarah the ex-girlfriend?”
“Ex-fiance’, yes.”
“Oh, I see,” she said.
I shouldn’t have corrected her. It served no purpose. I should have let it go.
There was another uncomfortable pause in the conversation, probably for the need for her to digest the ‘fiance’’ thing. I tried to think of a way to make up for calling her Sarah, but my mind failed me.
“I love these scallops. I don’t know what they do to them here, but they are the best,” she said, trying to get away from the last topic. “I guess I love just about all seafood.”
“I enjoy most of it…except oysters,” I said, relieved. “I just can’t do oysters. Do you have a favorite?” I asked, only too happy to join her in her quest to put the topic of ex’s behind us.
“That’s an easy one: lobster. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I enjoy lobster. If I’m ever on death row, I’m going to request lobster for my last meal.”
I laughed. “Death row, huh? That’s for murderers. Should I be worried?”
She looked me in the eye, smiled and said, “As long as you never call me Sarah, again, I think we’re good.”
Boy, she packed a lot into that response. She’s good.
Our conversation improved a bit throughout the rest of the dinner and dessert and coffee afterwards. It was still mostly just polite conversation, though. We couldn’t talk politics and we couldn’t talk art. We wandered aimlessly through favorite music and movies, the weather for a third time, then hobbies and our mutual friendship with Diane. At no stop along the way did we find much common ground. I went for the ‘Hail Mary’ and tried to liven things up with a little bold humor.
“Okay, so you’re one of those high-falutin art people. Help me understand something. Why is Picasso thought to be so good? I mean all the people in his paintings have these silly triangle noses. And in some paintings, he put two eyes on the same side of a person’s face. I mean, it seems like he couldn’t even get the basics down.”
Chelsea had just taken a sip of water and had to fight to hold it in. She began laughing hard, but had a mouth full of food and water. Tears started to form in her eyes. She started waving her hand in front of her face, trying to tell me something. Then she pointed to her mouth and waved again. I couldn’t help but to start laughing with her. She then pointed at me and then covered her eyes and I finally realized what she was trying to tell me. Before I could turn my head or get my hand over my eyes, she took her napkin, covered her mouth with it and gently emptied her mouth into the napkin.
It didn’t stop her laughter, though, nor mine. In fact, we seemed to feed off each other and our laughter intensified. She lied down on her side in the booth, still laughing.
She finally composed herself enough and sat back up, wiping tears from her eyes. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I’m sorry. I know this is like one of the ten rudest things a person can do, but I have to text a girl I work with to remind me to tell her about this. I’m sorry,” she said before bursting out laughing, again.
Okay, now I get the feeling I’m being laughed at.
“That was the funniest assessment of Picasso and his work that I ever heard,” she said, her laughter finally coming to an end.
“Well, that’s just one of the services I provide,” I said.
The shared laughter seemed to go a long way in breaking the ice that still remained.
Still nursing our coffees, we talked a bit, but I wanted to get on with the evening. I asked her if she’d like to go for a drink somewhere. She seemed completely uninterested in that and suggested just staying at the restaurant and having one at our table. Yeah, I don’t feel it, either. We’re being nice, but we both know this isn’t going anywhere. Hopefully, we’ll go back to her place, have some fun and be on our merry, separate ways.
We stayed at the restaurant until ten before getting up from the table and walking toward the door. We got to the hostesses’ stand and I asked her to wait for a moment. I saw the busboy, Oliver, and approached him. I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my pocket and shook his hand with it in my hand.
“I love your work ethic, Oliver. Keep making your mom proud, OK?”
He smiled and said, “Thank you, Mayor, but you don’t have to…”
“That’s just for you, ok?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Enjoy.”
I made my way back to Chelsea and thanked her for waiting.
“Who was that?“ she asked.
“His mom works at city hall. She comes here to work three or four nights a week, too, to make ends meet. Her useless husband was a drug addict and drained their life savings and destroyed her credit, before she finally kicked him out. Oliver hands over just about all of his paycheck to his mom. I feel bad for him. He’s a good kid. He works hard, but doesn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor, you know what I mean?”
“That was so nice of you.”
“Well, I started out as a busboy, too, so I have that whole ‘simpatico’ thing going with him.”
We were making our way through the lobby to the exit door when Chelsea burst out laughing again, grabbing my arm to steady herself.
“What now?” I asked.
She composed herself and pointed to the far wall. “That’s a Picasso reprint hanging on that wall.”
I stopped, turned and looked at the painting. “See what I mean?” I said. She laughed again.
When we got outside, I asked, “Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh, that’s ok. I’m only right there,” she said as she pointed to a white Prius a couple spots down. “I had a lovely time. It was so nice meeting you.”
Wait, what? I get it that it’s not going anywhere, but we could still…She must want me to make the move.
“Yes, nice meeting you, too. The night’s still young, though. Do you want to come back
to my place?”
“No, no. It’s a school night. Everybody needs their rest,” she countered.
Damn.
“Okay, well be careful driving home,” I said.
“You, too.” She put out her hand. I slid my hand into hers and she pulled herself up to
me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Eh, probably for the better, anyway.
I wasn’t ready to go home, though. After I watched Chelsea get into her car and drive off, I headed across the street to the Good Knight bar. It wasn’t long before I was buying a drink for a twenty-something whose parents divorced when she was young and who didn’t get enough attention from her father. By midnight we were heading back to my place.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
She was the first woman I was with since Sarah and she bore the brunt of all of my frustrations. She was gone before I woke up the next morning. I have no idea how she got home. Perhaps she lived nearby, or maybe she called a cab. I think her name was Kaitlyn.
Chapter Six
I came into the office the following day and Diane was wearing the broadest smile I had seen on her in a long time. "Well, someone made quite the impression last night," she said cheerfully.
I stopped at her desk to grab my messages. "Pfft...yeah, I think I will handle picking out my own dates from now on," I said and walked into my office. Greg was there waiting for me in one of the guest chairs.
Diane’s smile disappeared and she got up from her desk and followed me into the office. "What?!?!" she asked in complete shock.
While still making my way to my desk, I asked her, "When's the last time you saw your
super best friend Chelsea?"
"Yesterday...no, wait the day before. Why?"
"Notice anything about her hair?" I asked, turning toward her.
"What about it?"
I staggered my response for emphasis and effect, "Diane. The tips. Of her hair. Are blue."
"Oh, so what. It's not like all of her hair is blue."
"Well, that's true. If her whole head of hair was blue, I'd be standing here right now talking to the police and answering questions as to why I shot you."
"Why is that so bad?" she asked.
"Are you high?"
"Why?"
"The tips. Of her hair. Are blue," I repeated.
"Yeah, yeah..but why is that so bad?"
I looked at Greg and shook my head. "Unbelievable."
"Seriously," she insisted.
"Diane, picture the next campaign fundraiser: 'Oh, very nice to meet you, Congressman. This is my date, Chelsea. As you can see, her hair is blue.'"
"Oh, stop it."
“Diane...”
“Well, get over it, because she thinks you’re the bee’s knees and would love to see you again.”
“The bee’s knees? Did you really just say that?” I picked up the receiver on my desk phone and handed it to Diane. “It’s the 1940’s calling. They want their expression back.”
“Shut up. Look, what can I say, she told me she had a wonderful time.”
I put the handset back onto the phone. “Did she and I go on the same date?”
“Well, I’m beginning to wonder, because she said she had a great time and you seem to be saying something completely different.”
“The night was over by ten o’clock and we just gave each other a peck on the cheek ‘good night’. It was a disaster.”
“She told me that the date could have been over in ten minutes and you had already won her over.”
“What?” I asked incredulously, wondering how it could be possible that Chelsea would say she had a good time or that I had won her over.
“She said she knew all she needed to know about you by the way you treated the people at the restaurant. She said you remembered their names and treated them all respectfully.”
“Eh...big deal.”
“And did you stand up when she approached the table?”
“Of course, that’s just common courtesy...”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Well, whatever. She’s no Sarah.”
“Give her time.”
Greg was getting impatient. His leg was a commercial for restless leg syndrome, bobbing up and down in frustration. “You know, I love a good episode of the ‘Love Connection’ as much as the next guy, but I have things to do. Can we move this along?”
Diane suddenly had one of those light-bulb-over-the-head moments. Her eyes widened and she said, “Now I know why she wanted me to ask you this. What color are her eyes?”
“What?” I asked, buying some time and scrambling in my mind to try to remember the color of her eyes.
“You heard me. What color are her eyes?”
Greg interjected, “Seriously, folks? Can we wrap this up?”
“Answer me,” Diane demanded, and waved off Greg.
I thought for a moment and, “Her eyes? They’re...they’re not brown...are they brown? Damn. I don’t remember.”
“Chelsea was right. She told me that every time you looked at her, instead of looking into her eyes, you focused on her hair.”
“Oh, whatever. That’s not true.”
“Are you kidding? All you’ve talked about so far is her hair. You better get over it.”
There seem to be a shift in the conversation; almost a reluctant acceptance.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not seeing her, again,” I said.
“Oh, yes you are. In about four hours for lunch.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’ll be here at twelve-thirty. She’s bringing lunch,” she said, as she turned and walked toward the door.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t agree to that.”
“So, what? You have nothing else going on.”
“You’re killing me with this.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing by making you have lunch with a beautiful woman. Killing you.”
I sighed heavily. “Whatever. Is her hair still going to be blue?”
“Shut up.”
Diane left the office and I turned to Greg. “Maddening. Anyway, moving on. Sorry about that.”
“No problem. So, it didn’t go well?” he asked.
“For the love of all that is sacred and pure, the tips of her hair were blue. How do you think it went?” Greg had been there before. He knew what I was saying, so he didn’t pursue it.
I sat down in my thickly padded leather desk chair and took an extra moment to appreciate its comfort.. I said to Greg, “You know what the best part of this job is? Having this big old-fashioned leather chair and this huge window. How visionary were the people that designed this place? Setting City Hall on a hill with this huge window to overlook the city? Love it.”
Greg responded, “It’s nice, but the best part of your job is that it leads to a bigger, better job. Good things are happening out there. I’m hearing that Yvonne is really clearing a path for you. She must be getting good feedback from the field. She shut out Congressman Felder from any consideration for the Senate seat. He insisted that he’s paid his dues and if anyone is going to take down Spencer, it’s should be him. But from what I’m hearing, she froze him out.”
“Who is Felder? Never heard of him.”
“He’s on the other side of the state; represents a fairly rural district. Anyway, if he gets wind that Yvonne is grooming you, he’s going to send some people out here to sniff around.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I don’t think so. No skeletons in your closet and this city is in great shape. Just keep your nose clean,” he warned.
“I think I can manage that.”
“See how important that dinner with Callahan was?” he said.
“Yeah, wow. I think I’m getting nervous.”
“Nervous? You should be excited. Thrilled.”
“I suppose, but it’s a little intimidating, you know? I mean we’re talking about a statewide campaign; raising millions of dollars. We’re talking about taking down a freakin’ incumbent...in a primary, no less. And there’s not a lot of difference between me and Spencer issue-wise, so this is going to be personality-driven...and very negative. Every word and move is going to be scrutinized. And if I lose, he’ll spend the next six years thinking of a hundred ways to punish me afterwards. She better be right about this.”
“Well, you’re right about that. She has everything riding on this. That’s why I think you should be thankful that you have her on your side.”