Page 6 of Love Is an Art
I unlock my phone and hand it to her.
She types in her number. “Still, I’m not promising that I’ll share any embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Holding out ’til the third date?”
“At least.” She raises her eyebrows.
“Maybe we’ll even have to have a fourth date. It can take a while to build up that level of trust. But I promise not to share them with anyone.” A drunk guy careens toward her, and I pull her out of harm’s way. Closer to me. She looks up, surprised. She’s inches away. I swallow. “That guy seemed a bit out of control.” Her hair has an apple-y, clean scent.
“Thanks.” She looks around, and then the corner of her mouth tilts up. She doesn’t step back.
That’s fine with me. I’m all for sharing the same air space.
She tilts toward me like we’re magnets drawn closer.
“Fourth date. Things are getting serious.” She winks. “What do you usually do on a date?”
“Good question,” I say and look away to think of a coherent response. I glance at her again. “I haven’t dated in a while. I guess it depends on what you like to do.”
“Good answer.” Her jaunty grin makes me smile in return.
I step back. I’ve forgotten that I’m in a no-speeding zone. And a no-parking zone. I’m not out here to meet anyone.
“But I should probably get going,” she says. “I need some more substantive food.”
“I saw a burger place next door. Can I treat you to dinner? I don’t think it’s fancy, but it was crowded.” I finish my beer. I did come here straight after work, and I am hungry. It will just be some more talking. Talking while eating is totally safe.
She looks around the room, clearly hesitating.
I wait. I’m surprised by how much I want her to say yes.
She turns back to me. “Sure. But I can’t stay out late. I have to work tomorrow, so I need to be fresh. Let me tell my friends.”
I exhale, as if I’ve been holding my breath. “Okay. I’ll get a table.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
As I walk toward the door, this guy in a green, velvet jacket waylays me. He hasArtistwritten all over him. But not in the positive sense—like I’m trying to make sense of the world, or create something that inspires emotion, or make the world a better place, like the vibe that Tessa was giving off.No.More in the pretentious, stuck-up, I’m superior because I don’t traffic in the means of commerce sense. I’ve met types like these before when my dad has book talks, only they’re aspiring to write the next great American novel. They’re even more horrified when they find out I’m his son and I work in finance.
“What did you think of the show?” the guy asks.
Maybe he’s one of the artists.
“I don’t know much about art, but I was impressed,” I say.
His eyebrows raise. “You’re not an art collector or connoisseur?”
“No.” Connoisseur looks like the type of word he’d use.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“I’m in finance.”
“If you’re interested in any of the artwork, I can facilitate an introduction and negotiate a good price,” he says. “I’m Jurgen.”
I was wrong. He’s still pretentious, but definitely all about trafficking in the commerce of art.
“No, thanks. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way out.” I brush past him.
