“Fill me in later, okay? Oh, and you’re in pink too, honey.”
Andie rolled her eyes. She’d hoped to avoid such a bargain and fly in under the radar in a safer fashion choice of her own choosing. If she let her friends have their way she’d end up at that gala with a pink mermaid gown and coifed curls like some pitiful Marilyn Monroe doppelganger at a Halloween costume party. But, if a pink dress was the price to pay for snagging the best photographer in town and helping push a friend to take on the world at the same time, then pink it would be. Pink wasn’t that bad. Even Aerosmith had made a song about the color. If Stephen Tyler could rock pink, then she could at least give it a shot. That said, she was still going to exercise veto power if any sequins or glitter showed up. With Tandy and Scott both pushing pink, things could get a little too carried away.
Oz raised his head at the movement of legs over him. The soggy duck dangled from his mouth and dripped puppy slobber on the toe of Andie’s boot. His big brown eyes looked worriedly from Andie to Scott, whose back was disappearing around the wall. His “job” was to be Scott’s shadow. Poor guy, he’d just gotten going on that duck. “You’re excused.” She scratched the pup lightly behind the ear as he dropped the wet soft toy at Andie’s feet and trotted off.
Photographer: check . Andie mentally crossed the task off her to-do list. Well, that was one important item taken care of. She checked her watch. It was only 10:45. Perfect, she still had over an hour until her next class to hang out in the café and not think about work. The way the door chime kept ringing, it was clear chatting time had passed and the brunch crowd would be filtering in for pastries and first tea. Andie considered grading papers, but decided against it. I’m lounging around in the best-kept secret in the university district , she reminded herself, the perfect place to catch up on the local poetry scene. Scott faithfully kept the café stocked in the best of the best local work, with a good bit of variety and the occasional “so much potential” chapbook thrown in for good measure, just in case an underdog ever got a fighting chance. If “a little party never killed nobody” at Gatsby’s house, then a little culture never hurt anybody in Scott’s café. With that in mind, grading felt like it would be a punishment, no matter how interesting the essay matter was. It was an easy choice.
Andie grabbed a glossy stapled paperback off the top of the pile nearest to her. The cover was a stark, rough sketch of a woman, muted in tones of charcoal and white save for a foil-embossed gold bone above the title. The whole thing looked like it had been printed off at FedEx, but otherwise was in good shape. Marbled Bones by Nicolas Justin. With the book in one hand and her mug in the other, Andie pulled her boot-clad legs underneath her body, laid her head against the wing of the chair, and tucked into Nicolas’ poetry.
***
Truth be told, Nicolas’ poetry was far better than she’d expected it to be, and Andie was already intently reading the second act of his prose when Scott finally reclaimed the armchair beside her. He didn’t interrupt her reading, so she waited until she’d finished the last stanza to speak.
“You know, this is really pretty good. The way he juxtaposes imagery with rhyme is kinda brilliant and totally unexpected. Do you happen to have his contact info? I’d love to invite him to be a guest speaker in my—” Oh, crap . Her now empty mug slipped from her fingers, rolled off her lap, and landed with a small thud on Oz’s left-behind duck. Peep, the duck protested.
It wasn’t Scott in the chair beside her. It was—of all the freaking people in the whole freaking world, and this had to be some kind of sick mistake—Guy Wilder. He was sitting silently in his second-skin leather and studying her from behind the mask of the same dark sunglasses
Andie rolled her eyes. She’d hoped to avoid such a bargain and fly in under the radar in a safer fashion choice of her own choosing. If she let her friends have their way she’d end up at that gala with a pink mermaid gown and coifed curls like some pitiful Marilyn Monroe doppelganger at a Halloween costume party. But, if a pink dress was the price to pay for snagging the best photographer in town and helping push a friend to take on the world at the same time, then pink it would be. Pink wasn’t that bad. Even Aerosmith had made a song about the color. If Stephen Tyler could rock pink, then she could at least give it a shot. That said, she was still going to exercise veto power if any sequins or glitter showed up. With Tandy and Scott both pushing pink, things could get a little too carried away.
Oz raised his head at the movement of legs over him. The soggy duck dangled from his mouth and dripped puppy slobber on the toe of Andie’s boot. His big brown eyes looked worriedly from Andie to Scott, whose back was disappearing around the wall. His “job” was to be Scott’s shadow. Poor guy, he’d just gotten going on that duck. “You’re excused.” She scratched the pup lightly behind the ear as he dropped the wet soft toy at Andie’s feet and trotted off.
Photographer: check . Andie mentally crossed the task off her to-do list. Well, that was one important item taken care of. She checked her watch. It was only 10:45. Perfect, she still had over an hour until her next class to hang out in the café and not think about work. The way the door chime kept ringing, it was clear chatting time had passed and the brunch crowd would be filtering in for pastries and first tea. Andie considered grading papers, but decided against it. I’m lounging around in the best-kept secret in the university district , she reminded herself, the perfect place to catch up on the local poetry scene. Scott faithfully kept the café stocked in the best of the best local work, with a good bit of variety and the occasional “so much potential” chapbook thrown in for good measure, just in case an underdog ever got a fighting chance. If “a little party never killed nobody” at Gatsby’s house, then a little culture never hurt anybody in Scott’s café. With that in mind, grading felt like it would be a punishment, no matter how interesting the essay matter was. It was an easy choice.
Andie grabbed a glossy stapled paperback off the top of the pile nearest to her. The cover was a stark, rough sketch of a woman, muted in tones of charcoal and white save for a foil-embossed gold bone above the title. The whole thing looked like it had been printed off at FedEx, but otherwise was in good shape. Marbled Bones by Nicolas Justin. With the book in one hand and her mug in the other, Andie pulled her boot-clad legs underneath her body, laid her head against the wing of the chair, and tucked into Nicolas’ poetry.
***
Truth be told, Nicolas’ poetry was far better than she’d expected it to be, and Andie was already intently reading the second act of his prose when Scott finally reclaimed the armchair beside her. He didn’t interrupt her reading, so she waited until she’d finished the last stanza to speak.
“You know, this is really pretty good. The way he juxtaposes imagery with rhyme is kinda brilliant and totally unexpected. Do you happen to have his contact info? I’d love to invite him to be a guest speaker in my—” Oh, crap . Her now empty mug slipped from her fingers, rolled off her lap, and landed with a small thud on Oz’s left-behind duck. Peep, the duck protested.
It wasn’t Scott in the chair beside her. It was—of all the freaking people in the whole freaking world, and this had to be some kind of sick mistake—Guy Wilder. He was sitting silently in his second-skin leather and studying her from behind the mask of the same dark sunglasses
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