Flash Fiction Friday

No Need To Worry

The girl has piercings and tattoos like she's the first one to think of it. She's pretty, in a dark way, and she knows it. He assesses her discreetly while she stands in line like a soccer mom, waiting for the coffee guy to get to her. Maybe it's because she's pretty that his thoughts go to the negative, about the changes that Time will bring to her young body. What's firm will soften, what's up will come down. The same thing can be said about himself, though, and he knows it.

That lower back tattoo, though. Did she think about that very much? Edgy, maybe, when she got it, but it won't be that long before those marks are known as "old lady tattoos." How will she feel about that? Will that be her purple when she is old?

Anyway, he's not here to ogle girls. He's actually waiting to meet someone, a woman. An agent. When they'd spoken on the phone she'd said that his work might be good enough for her to represent, if there was enough of it. The pieces she'd seen, the street scenes were a good start, but she wanted to see more. And what did he think about showing in Tokyo, where he'd painted the pictures?

He looks at his coffee, still hot in a nice thick cream-colored mug. Back to Tokyo? He feels like he just got back, though it's been years, and he's not really excited about the idea. But anything to make a career, right? The pierced girl orders a coffee that's way too complicated for her image, and the coffee guy sighs through another recipe. Where is the agent? Amy Carpenter, she'd said. A bit of Google and he saw that she was a real agent, though about as famous as he was. A few shows, three good reviews, and that's about it. Still, though. A lead's a lead, a break's a break.

Tokyo. The chances he'd run into Michele again would be infinitesimal. She's probably not even there anymore. Probably off in Hong Kong, or Dubai, someplace exotic and rich. No, he'd be fine. If Amy would get here, that is. He checks the time. Not late enough to call it a stand-up, but not early enough to feel truly professional. Pierce Tattoo has got her cafeccinnomochaiatte and gone off to be safely exotic somewhere else. Should he get a scone or something? He doesn't want crumbs all over if Amy ever shows up. Which she does just then, thankfully. She's a tall woman with short red hair, wearing a leather Ike jacket over a broadcloth shirt. Her jeans are well worn and well filled. She sits across from him at the small cafe table.

"Sorry," she says. "I got caught up. I should have called."

"No, don't worry about it. Can I get you a coffee or something?"

Amy takes off her oversized sunglasses and squints at the board behind the coffee guy. "Do they have anything good?" she asks. "Never mind. I'm not going to be here very long."

"Well, that's either really good, or really bad," he says.

She looks at him, squinting like she had at the sign. "You look different than your picture. That's not a bad thing, I mean. You just look... quieter, I guess."

"Quieter."

"Anyway, I'm sorry to waste your time, but I don't think that this is going to work." She stands.

"That was quick. Is it because I'm too quiet?" He remains seated. No need to worry about Michele or Tokyo.

She laughs, a quick bark. "No, it's not that, it's..." She hunts around for words. "You have a style that's really good, but just I don't think that there's a market for what you do."

"No market? On the phone you had a gallery. You had Tokyo. I guess I don't understand."

Her phone rings. She glances at the screen. "Look, can I call you later? There's a meeting I have to get to."

"Sure," he says. "I'll wait by the phone." And Amy leaves, just like that. Nope, no need to worry about Michele or Tokyo.

In The Egyptian Room

There was a girl, once. Blue eyes like a summer morning but she always ducked her head when he looked at her, turned away so he couldn't see. That was okay, though, because her eyes always made his stomach feel funny. Like he wanted to hit her and then run away, to see if she'd chase him. Not hurt her, not hit her like that, but sometimes he'd have to put a little more into it, so nobody'd think he liked her.

She'd be a woman now, of course. Married, most likely, with kids of her own. She probably spent evenings at the dinner table listening to them talk about the annoying boys and girls in their classrooms. It didn't bother him to think about that, about her being married and having a family. It made him feel good to think her life had turned out okay.

He shut off the TV and went about trying to fall asleep. Tomorrow he'd be headed into the city to go to the museum. Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, the traveling exhibit that would be gone by summer's end. He liked the Venetians, was excited to see them, but he'd wind up in the Egyptian Room. Something about the raw antiquity of the objects, about seeing across thousands of years... Why had he thought about her? About her secret smile and the way her hair would fall over her eyes just when he wanted to look into them? The cotton sheet was tight and he wrestled with it to loosen it up. Why'd he think of her? Why was he thinking about her now?

Summer. That summer after she'd moved away had been an empty one. Oh, there'd been plenty to do, baseball and riding bikes, hanging around and maybe going to the lake, but without her there it was like he was just playing at it. They were older by that point, thirteen or so and well past the "hit and run" age, and so he'd been cool and smooth and decided that he was beyond all that sappy stuff. Besides, he'd see her again.

Had he thought that? The memory floated up and he sat in bed to better see it. The afternoon about two weeks after she'd moved, when he'd gone into the woods behind his house and sat by the river. Nobody would see him there, right? The water was pretty low since there hadn't been a lot of rain, but there was still rushing and burbling, a sense of peace. It was the day they were supposed to have gone to the museum to see something. The Pompeii exhibit. But her family had taken her away, off to California for her dad's work. Thirty years later and it felt like yesterday. The trees, thick and full of summer, excited for long days and not thinking at all about the coming autumn. When school would start again and she'd still be gone. Then he'd looked at the river and thought hard—prayed, he now knew—that he'd see her again. The river washed past, the trees sighed in the breeze. Then came the calm certainty of it all. Of course he'd see her again. Of course.

Tomorrow, maybe. In the Egyptian Room.