One Week

by Roya Carmen

  As soon as I get home, I print the photo, and now I’m staring at a blank canvas. Elsie peeks her sweet little face in the door. Her whiskers twitch as they always do when she first enters my studio. “Hey cutie, come here. Come and look at this.”

  Yes, I’m one of those people who speaks to her cat like she’s human. As far as I’m concerned, she is. She’s a lot smarter than some of the people I encounter every day. I live in a college town, and there are a lot of kids around here, and I think most of them are stoned. And people can’t park for shit — I mean, the painted lines are there for a reason, people.

  Elsie sniffs my print — she seems unimpressed. “He’s not as cute as you,” I tell her. She turns her head and walks away from me, as if I’ve somehow cheated on her, just because I’ve taken a photo of another cat. “It’s just a photo,” I hear myself saying, and I realize how ridiculous I’m being. “Oh, how about if I paint you instead in the picture?” Yes, it’s decided —the cat in the photo is orange, but I will paint him black and white, just like my baby.

  She hops up on my purple velvet loveseat and curls into a comfy ball. I love having her in my studio. I feel less alone with her there. She’s as good as a human. Even better — she doesn’t chatter incessantly about everything and nothing, like the gals at work, back when I was working. Sometimes, I miss that, though. I miss the camaraderie. Who can I talk to about the latest Scandal episode, or the trials and tribulations of life with kids? Sure, there’s Maeve, Corrie and Kayla, but none of them watch Scandal or have children.

  I suppose I’m a bit lonely, in need of connection. Which is probably the reason I’ve developed this unhealthy obsession with a stranger who lives across the Atlantic, someone I haven’t officially met, or even seen.

  I shake my head as I get my brushes ready. I’m tempted to check my phone again. I won’t. I absolutely won’t. I’ve only checked it about sixty-seven times this past day. Okay, so I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. Seriously, I’ve gone insane. I’m sure he’s not sitting around, waiting for a message from me. I ponder my reaction to him, and decide that it’s just curiosity. He intrigues me because I know nothing about him. Isn’t it human nature to want to know more? Something unknown is always more interesting than something familiar.

  Either way, he’s made me passionate about my art again. Even if I never hear from him again, I’m glad we met. As I set up my supplies, I make a mental list. Paint for a few hours, pick up the kids, make banana muffins, dinner, read a bit before a little Netflix, and hopefully if John is not too ‘in the zone’ as he likes to say, I can distract him from his writing and get a little attention.

  Not on list: checking my phone obsessively.

  Chapter Six

  THE DRESS SHOP IS SO PRETTY; shabby chic, shades of whites and grey, gilded mirrors and white gauze. And dresses, dresses, dresses — wedding dresses, and bridesmaid dresses. There are also veils, shoes, purses, pashminas and jewelry.

  It’s Thursday, and thankfully it’s very quiet — we have the place to ourselves. Maeve has the day off, and Kayla is free until later this afternoon. Corrie and I, are ‘women of leisure’ as we like to say.

  Hand on hip, foot playfully askew, Corrie studies her reflection in front of the full-length mirror, the kind of mirror found in fairy tales — and she looks amazing. If she weren’t one of my best friends, I’d hate her a little. With her tiny frame, blonde locks and shiny blue eyes, she’s pretty much the envy of every woman who meets her. The bustier top, A-line skirt style of the dress looks fabulous on her. Although I have to say, the color doesn’t really suit her.

  Butter yellow. I don’t hate it, but Corrie does. Maeve is having a late summer September wedding and she’s settled on a white, yellow and light blue color scheme. I think it suits her perfectly — it’s sweet like her. She’s already picked out her flowers; blue and white hydrangeas, thistles, dahlias, and baby’s breath.

  “You look so pretty,” Maeve says encouragingly, a smile as wide as her face — her enthusiasm is contagious.

  “I’m up next,” Kayla chimes in as she untangles herself from the pink velvet curtain of the changing stall. She looks pretty fabulous too. Unlike Corrie, the yellow works really nice with her dark hair and light complexion. And she has that yoga body; lean muscles and perfect posture.

  “Perfect,” Maeve says.

  “Not too shabby,” Kayla replies. A smirk traces her lips as she turns to me. “Your turn, Gabbie. Your dress is waiting for you.”

  Ugh.

  I really don’t want to try the dress, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I?

  I trudge over to the small changing room. I pull the velvet curtain closed behind me, shoulders slumped. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stand a little straighter. I think about starting yoga, but just for a second. I grab the silk hanger and study the dress. Pretty, but not quite what I would choose for myself, not the best choice for a curvy woman like me. I’m the curviest of the bunch, and I know I’ll feel absolutely whale-ish next to the three of them. I’m not usually too concerned with my weight… I just try not to focus on it too much. I’m pretty happy about where I’m at. I was a lot heavier when the kids were really small — I’ve lost about thirty pounds and I’m pretty happy. Except when it comes to occasions like these.

  I wiggle my body into the flimsy silk, and it does feel really nice on my skin. I reach for the side zipper, silently praying that it fits — I’ve been going a little heavy on the nachos and guacamole lately.

  Thankfully, it fits. A little snug, but it fits. I feel like my boobs are going to pop out at any second. But the color looks fantastic on me.

  I’m a little shy when I escape from the small room for my big reveal. I throw my arms up in the air for effect. “Ta-dah!”

  “Wow,” Maeve says.

  “Va-va-voom,” Corrie cheers.

  “Gorgeous,” Kayla adds.

  I climb up to the podium in front of the large fairy tale mirror.

  “That is a perfect fit,” Trudy, the shopkeeper, chimes in. “You’ll just have to be careful… it’s just right.”

  I frown at my reflection. Trudy didn’t feel the need to warn Kayla or Corrie to “be careful.” Anyway, I look great, and I’m happy. And even better, I’m officially done with this ‘dress trying on’ business.

  I take a seat next to Kayla and Corrie on the pretty Victorian sofa facing the podium and mirror, and cross one leg over the other. We’re all still wearing our dresses —we look like a bunch of canaries. Maeve and Trudy disappear into the change room, and we eagerly await her big reveal! None of us have seen the dress. She went shopping with her mom and refused to show us any pictures. We make idle chit-chat and whip out our phones. I tug the top of my dress.

  I absentmindedly click on my phone and check my notifications. My heart practically leaps out of my chest when I see a message from him. I’d given up on him. I’d started to forget him, and here he is. My pulse is racing, and in my head, I say to myself, What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?

  I instantly read his message.

  And I almost fall off the sofa. I can’t see my reflection in the mirror, but I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging on the floor.

  What do you think?! I told you it was sexy…

  Holy sweet mother of Jesus, fuck me (pardon my French) but…

  There’s a photo of him below the message. He’s sitting on his Vespa, looking sinfully sexy. He’s wearing a black helmet and aviator shades, and this cool army inspired khaki jacket, white tee, and dark jeans. He looks like a Calvin Klein ad.

  “Holy fuck,” Corrie blurts. “Who the hell is that?!”

  She’s been looking over my shoulder again — there is no such thing as privacy when Corrie is sitting next to you. Kayla leans in over Corrie to sneak a peek.

  “Mmmm…” Kayla murmurs.

  My heart is beating a mile a minute. I need time to process this. Part of me was hoping he’d look like a grandpa. But somehow, part of me knew he was h
ot. I don’t know how, but I just had a feeling.

  “Seriously... who is that?!” Corrie asks, being her usual nosy self. She just won’t let it go.

  “Oh… he’s just this artist I met on Instagram,” I say casually, attempting to downplay the whole thing. “We’ve been chatting a bit.”

  “Wow,” Kayla says.

  “Uh-huh,” Corrie adds. “You should be careful. There are a lot weirdos on the Internet.”

  I know. I know. But somehow, I don’t think Eli is a weirdo.

  “He’s probably catfishing you,” she adds. “He’s pretending to be someone else. That can’t be him. He’s too hot.”

  “What?!” I hadn’t considered that possibility. Could he be catfishing me? He probably doesn’t even own a Vespa? He probably doesn’t even live in Copenhagen. His name’s probably not even Eli. It’s probably Fred, or Burt, or Harry or something… something less sexy. It’s all a sham!!!

  “Oh my god, I’ve been catfished.”

  Kayla laughs. “Look at you two, jumping to conclusions again,” she says. “Maybe he’s the real deal.”

  I study the photo. I can’t see his eyes behind the shades or the hair hidden under his helmet, but he has a gorgeous smile, and one of those chiseled, angular faces. He seems tall but it’s hard to tell because he’s sitting. And that Vespa is gorgeous. It’s a nice picture, almost too nice — maybe Corrie is right, maybe he is catfishing me.

  “Nice bike,” Corrie says. “What is that?! A scooter?”

  “Yeah, it’s a scooter,” Kayla chimes in, “but the guy is hot enough to get away with it.”

  “How long have you known this guy?” Corrie asks. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

  “Well… about—”

  Maeve and Trudy finally make their appearance. They’re both smiling from ear to ear. Oh yes… I’d almost forgotten… this day is about Maeve. I tuck my phone in my purse. “Beautiful,” I say. She really is.

  “Gorgeous,” Corrie agrees.

  “I love the skirt,” Kayla adds.

  She really does look like a princess. The dress is embroidered with tiny flowers, they seem to dance as she twirls for us. The white of the dress is striking against her dark skin. The bustier sleeveless top fits her perfectly because she’s small busted. I look over at the girls and down at my own bust. I see why Maeve chose these dresses — they go perfectly with hers. I tug at my top again.

  Sigh.

  Chapter Seven

  I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING WRONG. Absolutely nothing. But yet… I feel guilty. Just a little. This changes everything. It was all good when I couldn’t picture him, when I told myself that he was probably not attractive at all. But now… wow.

  I’m completely distracted as I make dinner. Tonight’s meal is simple; macaroni and cheese and turkey sandwiches. I overcook the pasta, and forget to use the bread Emma likes.

  I serve the kids their dinners. Theo is all smiles — he’ll eat anything, always hungry. Emma frowns. “You used the brown bread with the seeds in it.”

  “Oh crap,” I blurt. “I… I mean, oh darn. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “Can I just eat the cheese and meat?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Whatever.” I really don’t care at the moment. I take John’s dinner to his office. He’s eating at his desk again. I’m careful not to spill anything as I set the tray down gently on his desk.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” he says with a smile. “You’re an angel.”

  I shoot him a tight grin, and grab my phone from my purse. I need to get to the bottom of this picture, or it will bother me all night. I look at the time. It’s 5:30 PM. It’s 11:30 PM his time. He might be asleep already, and probably won’t get back to me.

  It’s gorgeous. I love the color. Nice picture. Who took it?

  I’m digging a little… I want to know more. I’m getting my Nancy Drew on.

  I set the phone down on the kitchen counter, and I start on my own sandwich, although I can’t imagine eating it — the girls and I had a pretty big lunch at our favorite spot.

  I hear a ding. I drop my knife, and grab my phone.

  It’s him.

  Thanks. Yeah, I like that picture too. My ex-girlfriend took it. It was taken not far from my loft.

  —

  Well, she’s a pretty good photographer. It’s a nice photo of you.

  —

  Yeah, she was always taking pictures. She’s a photographer.

  Oh damn, if this is all part of the catfishing, this guy is good.

  What happened? Why did you break up?

  I’m being very nosy, but I don’t care. If he’s playing me, he’ll have to think fast on his feet.

  His reply is slow to come. He’s having a hard time making up shit, perhaps. Finally...

  It just didn’t work out. She was getting too serious. She wanted more from me than I could give, he writes. And she never really liked my dog... deal breaker.

  Interesting…

  So he’s the noncommittal type, and has a dog. Damn, I’m pretty good at this Nancy Drew stuff.

  What kind of dog do you have?

  —

  A Golden Retriever. His name is Floyd. I love Pink Floyd.

  —

  Very cool.

  He doesn’t reply. I figure it’s the end of the conversation — he’s probably heading to bed. In an alternate universe, one where I’m single, childless, and living in Copenhagen, it still would never work between us because I’m more of a cat person. I don’t think Elsie would like Floyd.

  I smile as I slice my sandwich in two. I’m being ‘very silly’ as Theo would say, and I’m fully aware of it.

  Another ding.

  I’m on that phone like blue on sky.

  Holy mother of Mary…

  Another photo.

  It’s a photo of him and his dog. The last photo was nothing compared to this one. The man is gorgeous. The word ‘gorgeous’ does not even do him justice. He has striking eyes – they’re blue-green, and framed by perfect dark brows. And he has great hair too; light brown, wavy, and in need of a haircut.

  This guy has to be a fake… he looks like a freakin’ model. I shake my head, and do a little more investigating. He has no clue who he’s dealing with.

  As I type, I imagine a sloppy morbidly obese man in sweatpants. He’s eating a slice of pizza, and there’s a greasy cheese stain on his grey t-shirt. It sits right on top of his enormous stomach. He has long greasy hair, and is balding on top. He smiles wickedly as he taps away at his phone. Ewwww.

  Let me guess… another photo taken by your ex-girlfriend?

  —

  Yeah… I have loads of them. She was quite the shutterbug.

  I bet she was.

  Well, thank you so much for the photo. I need to go now to eat dinner. Bye.

  —

  Bye. :)

  I’m still not buying it. I save the photos, and do a reverse Google search. If these photos are some random stock pictures he got off the Internet, I’m going to find out.

  The results yield nothing… similar images, but not these ones.

  What the?

  I don’t know what to think. As I bite into my sandwich, I listen to the kids. They always chatter over dinner and have the silliest conversations.

  “I could be a cocoon, and you could be a butterfly,” Emma is saying.

  Theo shakes his head. He squirts more Ketchup on his macaroni.

  “I could wear a sleeping bag, and you could wear the butterfly costume I wore last year for Halloween,” Emma says.

  “No way,” Theo argues. “Butterfly costumes are for girls.”

  Emma frowns. “No, they’re not. They’re for everybody.”

  “And how are you even going to walk if you are in a sleeping bag?”

  Emma ponders this for a second.

  I smile. I need to forget about this Eli guy, or whatever his name is. This is getting ridiculous. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Am I that bored?


  But I should really show the girls the picture — they’d get a real kick out of it. And right after that, I’ll forget all about him.

  The kids are at school, and John is busy in his office again.

  I slip on the translucent black nightie over my bare breasts, and the matching lace garter. I stretch the knee high stockings over my legs, the pretty ones with the lace trim. Finally, for the ‘pièce de résistance’, I slip on my hooker heels, the ones I can barely walk in. Actually I never wear them — they’re my ‘sex shoes’.

  I tousle my long thick hair, and dab on some red lipstick.

  I almost topple over as I climb down the stairs to the main floor. The shoes are noisy on the wood flooring as I walk slowly to John’s office. I open the door carefully, and surprise him.

  A slow, wicked smile stretches across his face when he sees me. He’s seems pleasantly surprised, definitely happy to see me. He’s absolutely beautiful in this moment. His blue eyes sparkle… and his smile is the exact same one I fell in love with, the one I don’t see nearly enough these days.

  “I think it’s time for a break,” he says quietly. “Come here.”

  I walk over to him slowly, shy. He doesn’t move an inch — he stays rooted to his swivel chair. He wants me to come to him.

  He reaches for me. “You look beautiful,” he says, “so fucking sexy.” He goes right for my bum — my husband is an ass man. He pulls me in to him, and our lips press together. He tastes like coffee, and kissing him feels amazing. It’s been so long since we’ve kissed.