The Painter (WC 461)

The Painter

I never eat at that Mexican restaurant that had the e-Coli scare. Well, almost never. Today was the exception. Something pulled me in. For many of my friends, the restaurant is a go-to for lunch probably because they make big, supposedly fresh food.

At a few minutes until one, I found myself standing in line behind some blond hair covered by a paint-stained Porter's Red Cap. Not one advertising Red Cap Ale, but the kind someone at an airport would wear when relieving you of your luggage. The hat didn't match the hair, the tank top, or the short-shorts. Questions nagged at me but I'm not one to start conversations with strangers, usually.

It just came out. I don't from know where but I said, "Nice cap."

The blond covered head turned, smiled, and said, "Thanks."

My faced burned. I knew I was blushing and my voice quivered when I squeaked, "You're welcome."

Her smile lit up the neighborhood as I tried to climb under a chair. I've never understood my reactions to other people, especially those of the female persuasion. Maybe I need to see a therapist. I allowed a couple of feet separation as we went through the line, ordered something, directed its preparation, and headed for a seat. Alone.

The redcap waved and asked me to join her. "Hi. I'm Joan. Do you come here often?"

The heat rose in my cheeks. "No, this is the first time in more than a year." Then I heard myself saying, "I must have come here to meet you."

Joan smiled. "Do you have a name?'

"Oh, sorry."

"Sorry, that's a funny name."

I chuckled. "It would be. I'm Frank. Frank Sloane."

"Nice to meet you, Frank Sloane."

"And you, Joan. I have to ask. What's with the Redcap?"

"It showed up at my place one morning after a party. I liked it and wear it when I'm painting."

"So, you're an artist?"

"I wish. I paint houses and things. It's a job."

We ate quietly for a few moments. I'm not much of a conversationalist and it showed.

"Well, Frank Sloane, I have to go back to work. It's been nice having lunch with you. Please call me sometime."

"But, I don't have your number."

"I thought you'd never ask."

Joan walked out of the restaurant and I hoped not out of my life. Yet, when I tried to call, I got palpitations, cold sweats, and neared hyperventilation. Three weeks later, I fought through the near fainting spells to dial her number.

A baritone answered. He let me know that if it wasn't about painting, his wife was not talking to me. I dropped the phone down, plopped onto the sofa, and breathed easier.

I called my therapist.