sunglasses to shift down my nose.
I flipped open my pad and searched the pockets in my oversized patchwork hooded vest for my pencil. I tidied up the pages before staring at the blankness before me. One of my professors instructed we go out and sketch things in motion, pulling things from real life to see what art comes of them. Across the park I saw the man with the ascot playing with his dog… no definitely not.
On the opposite side of the park was a young couple openly sharing their expression of love on a park bench with some public groping… nope, not going to work. A small child was playing near her parents who were arguing in the background… nope, too depressing.
“Is this yours?” an oddly familiar male voice asked from behind me.
I turned, surprised to see Mr. Sexy Pants, whom I had met a week ago, staring at me, holding a sketch of a fruit bowl. Apparently I had not found all the victims of the art tornado.
“Hey, it’s you! Clementine, right?” Oh my God, he remembered my name. Shit, what was his name? The only thing I could think of was Mr. Sexy Pants. Damn it!
“Yeah, hi!” I exclaimed making it clear I did in fact recognize him. What was his name?
“So—is this yours?” he asked extending a hand with my work.
“Yes, thank you so much. I had a little mishap when I got here, and the wind must have carried it away.”
“Well, you don’t want to lose such a masterpiece.”
Damn it, he was hot and nice. Just ask him. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.”
“Really?” he asked and then laughed.
“Is that funny?” I was confused by his reaction.
“Kind of, since I have a name people tend not to forget. I was teased a lot growing up, and I’m just surprised you could forget it.” First, I had trouble believing anyone could make fun of him, and second, I felt even worse I had forgotten his name now.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. William Stryker.” That was it! Now I remembered. He motioned toward the blanket, clearly wanting to take a seat. “May I?”
I hesitated. I had no idea who this man was and wasn’t sure if I felt comfortable cozying up to a perfect stranger.
“Unless you’re already waiting for someone else, of course,” he added, sensing my edginess.
“No, of course not, have a seat,” I replied. Calm down . It’s no big deal, he’s just a nice guy and you’re only having a conversation with him. Stop being such a spaz , I told myself.
“Didn’t you say you were working for the school? Are you a professor or something?” I made a feeble attempt at small talk.
“No, no—” he began, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I’m doing some consulting work.”
“Oh really? What kind of consulting work does a school need?” I questioned, truly interested in what he had to say.
He didn’t answer right away, and looking around the park, I wondered if perhaps his work was sensitive in some way. Then looking back at me, he explained, “Sometimes they hire people, and before they give out certain positions they want to make sure that they are hiring someone who won’t have—oh, how do I say this gently, any skeletons in their closets.”
“You’re a cop? No way!” I cried out in disbelief.
“Oh hell no, nothing like that. Let’s just say, I’m really good at research. What about you? Are you a freshman?” he asked.
It was obvious I wasn’t an eighteen year old girl anymore, so for him to ask if I were a freshman, I was certain he was trying to flatter me. The compliment unnerved me and exhilarated me at the same time. It had been so long since a man noticed me, and even though I wasn’t seeking it, the bigger problem was I didn’t know how to react to the attention.
“Nice one,” I laughed.
“What? I’m serious? Are you a student there?”
“Yeah, I’m a transfer student. I’m finishing up my studios there so I can graduate,” I explained, surprised by how good it made me feel to say those
I flipped open my pad and searched the pockets in my oversized patchwork hooded vest for my pencil. I tidied up the pages before staring at the blankness before me. One of my professors instructed we go out and sketch things in motion, pulling things from real life to see what art comes of them. Across the park I saw the man with the ascot playing with his dog… no definitely not.
On the opposite side of the park was a young couple openly sharing their expression of love on a park bench with some public groping… nope, not going to work. A small child was playing near her parents who were arguing in the background… nope, too depressing.
“Is this yours?” an oddly familiar male voice asked from behind me.
I turned, surprised to see Mr. Sexy Pants, whom I had met a week ago, staring at me, holding a sketch of a fruit bowl. Apparently I had not found all the victims of the art tornado.
“Hey, it’s you! Clementine, right?” Oh my God, he remembered my name. Shit, what was his name? The only thing I could think of was Mr. Sexy Pants. Damn it!
“Yeah, hi!” I exclaimed making it clear I did in fact recognize him. What was his name?
“So—is this yours?” he asked extending a hand with my work.
“Yes, thank you so much. I had a little mishap when I got here, and the wind must have carried it away.”
“Well, you don’t want to lose such a masterpiece.”
Damn it, he was hot and nice. Just ask him. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.”
“Really?” he asked and then laughed.
“Is that funny?” I was confused by his reaction.
“Kind of, since I have a name people tend not to forget. I was teased a lot growing up, and I’m just surprised you could forget it.” First, I had trouble believing anyone could make fun of him, and second, I felt even worse I had forgotten his name now.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. William Stryker.” That was it! Now I remembered. He motioned toward the blanket, clearly wanting to take a seat. “May I?”
I hesitated. I had no idea who this man was and wasn’t sure if I felt comfortable cozying up to a perfect stranger.
“Unless you’re already waiting for someone else, of course,” he added, sensing my edginess.
“No, of course not, have a seat,” I replied. Calm down . It’s no big deal, he’s just a nice guy and you’re only having a conversation with him. Stop being such a spaz , I told myself.
“Didn’t you say you were working for the school? Are you a professor or something?” I made a feeble attempt at small talk.
“No, no—” he began, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I’m doing some consulting work.”
“Oh really? What kind of consulting work does a school need?” I questioned, truly interested in what he had to say.
He didn’t answer right away, and looking around the park, I wondered if perhaps his work was sensitive in some way. Then looking back at me, he explained, “Sometimes they hire people, and before they give out certain positions they want to make sure that they are hiring someone who won’t have—oh, how do I say this gently, any skeletons in their closets.”
“You’re a cop? No way!” I cried out in disbelief.
“Oh hell no, nothing like that. Let’s just say, I’m really good at research. What about you? Are you a freshman?” he asked.
It was obvious I wasn’t an eighteen year old girl anymore, so for him to ask if I were a freshman, I was certain he was trying to flatter me. The compliment unnerved me and exhilarated me at the same time. It had been so long since a man noticed me, and even though I wasn’t seeking it, the bigger problem was I didn’t know how to react to the attention.
“Nice one,” I laughed.
“What? I’m serious? Are you a student there?”
“Yeah, I’m a transfer student. I’m finishing up my studios there so I can graduate,” I explained, surprised by how good it made me feel to say those
Similar Books
