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08 Nisan 2023, 16:22
Every once in awhile, Angie wondered what would have happened if she'd been gutsier - or sluttier, or more opportunistic. If she'd been just as tough as Roger's wife - what was her name again? You'd think she'd remember, after all, the woman had signed at least a dozen checks to her. It had only been a year since her affair with Roger had ended, but Angie replayed bits and pieces of it over and over again in her mind. It all began when she'd eavesdropped on a well-dressed, older blonde woman whispering to her husband in a Westwood diner.
"You see that woman over there? She's not really a woman, is she? More like a child-woman- Isn't that what they used to call Marilyn Monroe? But I'm sure she doesn't have the emotional baggage and she's completely honest. That's what I would want for you, not some trollop that would cause trouble for both of us later. Why don't you go over and talk to her?" the woman kissed him. "I have to go now. I'll see you in a few weeks and I'll call you as soon as the plane lands."
Sure enough, the man walked over to her after his wife had left. He sat down next to her, his faint but musky cologne as intoxicating as sex. He said he couldn't believe that such a beautiful young woman was eating lunch alone. She blushed, and they exchanged small talk for a few minutes. He said his name was Roger, but revealed nothing else about himself.
"Where do you work?" he asked her
"No where steady - I'm an artist."
"You don't seem like an artist. You seem too sensible."
She smiled. "Well, I have to take that as a compliment. So I'm not a stereotype -- is that what you mean?"
"Exactly. I've always appreciated originality."
She didn't see him again for a few weeks, but one afternoon, his wife came into the diner again, by herself.
She looked like an art dealer - she had that same icy, vaguely European countenance, coupled with the assured, Armani-suited stride of a negotiator. Angie calmly lifted up her portfolio from underneath the table and wedged it on the seat next to her, like an inanimate dinnermate.
"Hello. My name is Sadie Christensen. I couldn't help but notice you sketching there. May I see it? Hope you don't mind my snooping."
"Oh, not at all."
"You know, this is very good. Are you a commercial artist?"
" I do some commercial work, yes, just to pay the rent." She picked up her portfolio and put it on top of the table. "But my main focus is fine art - painting and sculpture. "I have a portfolio. Would you like to see it?"
"I don't have time to look at your whole portfolio, dear. I'm on my way to a business meeting - here's my card. Meet me at my office say at four-o clock today and we'll talk, all right? I may have a job for you.",
*****
The offices of Christensen
"You see that woman over there? She's not really a woman, is she? More like a child-woman- Isn't that what they used to call Marilyn Monroe? But I'm sure she doesn't have the emotional baggage and she's completely honest. That's what I would want for you, not some trollop that would cause trouble for both of us later. Why don't you go over and talk to her?" the woman kissed him. "I have to go now. I'll see you in a few weeks and I'll call you as soon as the plane lands."
Sure enough, the man walked over to her after his wife had left. He sat down next to her, his faint but musky cologne as intoxicating as sex. He said he couldn't believe that such a beautiful young woman was eating lunch alone. She blushed, and they exchanged small talk for a few minutes. He said his name was Roger, but revealed nothing else about himself.
"Where do you work?" he asked her
"No where steady - I'm an artist."
"You don't seem like an artist. You seem too sensible."
She smiled. "Well, I have to take that as a compliment. So I'm not a stereotype -- is that what you mean?"
"Exactly. I've always appreciated originality."
She didn't see him again for a few weeks, but one afternoon, his wife came into the diner again, by herself.
She looked like an art dealer - she had that same icy, vaguely European countenance, coupled with the assured, Armani-suited stride of a negotiator. Angie calmly lifted up her portfolio from underneath the table and wedged it on the seat next to her, like an inanimate dinnermate.
"Hello. My name is Sadie Christensen. I couldn't help but notice you sketching there. May I see it? Hope you don't mind my snooping."
"Oh, not at all."
"You know, this is very good. Are you a commercial artist?"
" I do some commercial work, yes, just to pay the rent." She picked up her portfolio and put it on top of the table. "But my main focus is fine art - painting and sculpture. "I have a portfolio. Would you like to see it?"
"I don't have time to look at your whole portfolio, dear. I'm on my way to a business meeting - here's my card. Meet me at my office say at four-o clock today and we'll talk, all right? I may have a job for you.",
*****
The offices of Christensen