Written by RF Wilson – 

The other side of the bed was vacant. I listened for sounds in the bathroom and the kitchen, got up and skulked around the apartment. I looked out on the landing thinking maybe she’d gone out for a smoke.

In the kitchen, I pushed the BREW button of the coffee maker, listened to its gentle gurgle for a minute before going off to brush my teeth, returning as the machine was giving out its last raspy spasms. At the table, drinking the dark nectar, I considered possibilities.

She could have wakened early and gone for a morning walk. She didn’t have a car, she certainly wasn’t going to walk all the way to the impound lot and she didn’t have money for a cab.

With the mug halfway to my lips, I stopped, put it down and returned to the bedroom. On the dresser, next to my wallet and the change I’d accumulated during the previous day, in the spot where my keys would have rested overnight, there was an empty space.

Returning to the kitchen table, I replayed the previous day.

 

My muse resides at a local coffee shop. She takes the form of various patrons. My task is to imagine stories for them. After creating a narrative, I check with my subjects to see how closely my fantasy comports with reality. Most people are flattered by the attention. Occasionally, someone will think it’s creepy. By 10:30 yesterday morning, I had gotten one wrong (a woman was not studying lines for a play; she was preparing for a test in culinary arts) and one right (a college instructor was grading papers – almost a gimme).

I noticed the young woman come in, as did most of the other patrons of the small café. Thirtyish, pretty face with fine features, salt and pepper hair pulled up off her neck in back, wisps flying loose. Blue jeans, black sleeveless shell under which I detected the absence of an undergarment. Hoop earrings drew my eye to the contours of her cheekbones, then around to her dainty nose. Five-six or so, slim but not anorexic.

She walked past me to get in line for coffee before returning to a table for two. After she’d taken her seat, she looked over at me. We exchanged smiles. Hers was broad. Her full lips had been painted to match her toes (or vice versa). After returning my straight-on gaze for a minute, she said, “What?” her demeanor engaging rather than challenging.

“Just wondering,” I said.

“About what?”

“If I might join you.”

She pointed to the empty chair across from her.

“Is that how you always get peoples’ attention,” she asked after I’d relocated, “by staring them down?”

“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I was imagining your story.”

She sat at an angle to the table, pushed slightly away from it, legs crossed. She narrowed her eyes. “My story?”

I explained my coffee shop routine.

“Okay. What is it?”

“Still working on it.”

“How long does it take?”

“Depends. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.”

“And I just sit here while you stare at me?”

“Pretty undemanding work.”

I looked directly at her as I had from the other table, then let my gaze wander around as we both sipped coffee.

“I’ve about got it,” I said. “I need a refill. How about you?”

When I resumed my seat, I said, “You’re an artist. Maybe the performing arts. Maybe a performing artist. Something physical. You are very graceful and confident. Very direct. No B.S. The way a performance artist has to be. You are preparing for a show. You don’t live here, maybe staying with a friend.” I paused, took another sip. “How’m I doing so far?”

“That’s pretty amazing.”

“Really?”

“I am a performer and I am getting ready for a performance.”

“Get out.”

“Really.”

“Wow. I thought I was going out on a limb, there. What’s the show?”

“I’m still working on it. It’s a one woman thing, although there is one other character. Not sure who that will be, although I’m getting some vibes. And, you’re also right about me being from out of town. I gather you live here.”

I nodded.

“Maybe you could show me around. It helps if I get a feel for the place where I’m acting.”

I had nothing particular planned for the day. Ordinarily, I would go home and write for a couple of hours, but that was mutable under the right circumstances. Being with a pretty woman almost always qualified as a right circumstance. It’s not that I don’t otherwise have time to be with pretty women but, since my divorce, I have tended to avoid “entangling alliances.” And, that a younger woman – I guessed she was at least a decade my junior – was inviting me to share time with her was flattering. I’m not a bad looking guy, if somewhat average. Five-nine, sandy hair, medium frame. I work out some, so I’m still in decent shape, but I’m not what one would call a babe magnet.

Her favorite thing, she said, was gallery hopping and she was pleasantly surprised when I told her how many were within walking distance. We strolled downtown until lunch time. As we headed for a restaurant, she realized that her bag with her money, et al, was in her car back near the coffee shop. I offered to front the meal.

We sat outside at a bistro on the square. I had the crab cake sandwich; she, a shrimp salad. You might have thought we were at the beach instead of the mountains of Western North Carolina. We each had a glass of wine, decadent mid-day behavior.

When we left the restaurant, she asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Ordinarily, that’s a turn off for me. But it lent an air of intrigue to her, kind of like Lauren Bacall playing opposite Humphrey Bogart. I thought she’d look good in a hat. We sat on a street-side bench while she consumed her cigarette, the noxious fumes absorbed into the ambient city atmosphere. We wandered more galleries and boutiques. In the window of a vintage clothing store I saw The Hat, a forties model complete with bird feather. I bought it for her. Late in the afternoon we stopped for beers at one the city’s ubiquitous microbreweries. About seven, we agreed it was time for more solid sustenance.

After a few minutes of “whadda ya want to eat?” discussion, she said, “I’d just as soon cook something. Save some money, you know?” She was staying at a friend’s downtown condo while the friend was out of town. It was just around the corner from where we were drinking. We started off in that direction, when she remembered that all her stuff, including keys to her friend’s place, were in her car.

She scanned the lot as we approached.

“Damn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s gone.”

“Your car?”

“Yes. My car.”

“You’re sure this is where you left it?”

“Yes. I put some money in that machine over there, got a ticket and put it in the window.”

“How much time did you pay for?”

“A couple of hours. I didn’t think I was going to be here all day.”

“It’s probably been towed.”

She let out a string of expletives. She called the number for the impound lot that was printed on the sign warning what would happen if you parked without paying.

“One hundred and seventy-five dollars,” she said after she’d hung up the phone. “Damn. Like I have that kind of money to be throwing around. It’s my own fault, I know it. But . . .  damn. And they’re closed for the day and will back at 7:00 am. And, of course, my check book, debit card, everything is in the car. As are the keys to the condo. Damn.”

I slipped into rescue mode, one of my favorite places to be. I’ve read enough pop psychology to understand how being in that place allows one to feel one-up on the rescue. A certain moral superiority. Smug. I hoped it didn’t show.

“I’ve got some leftover homemade pasta and stuff for salad. Why don’t we pick up a bottle of wine, go to my place and sort this out. You’re not getting your car back until morning at the earliest, so you might as well enjoy the evening. And, I’ve got a couch you can crash on.”

“You’re a smooth talker, you know that?”

“Hey. I’m not suggesting anything other than a nice, home-cooked meal and a place to sleep.”

“Sounds better than the alternatives,” she said.

We walked to the lot where I was parked, legally.

“Nice ride,” she said as she got in the car. “What year?”

“’07,” I said, not hiding a grin. I was proud of my car, a seven-year old Lexus I’d bought a year ago with cash from selling a novel plus a little inheritance I’d been hanging onto.

At the apartment, we opened the wine and set the pasta sauce on the stove. Before we got around to eating, we wound up in the bedroom. Later, after we’d dined, we drove to an ATM machine where I took out $200.00. The plan was that I’d drive her to the impound lot in the morning, she’d use $175.00 of the cash to rescue her vehicle, we would then go back to a cash machine where she would withdraw enough money to pay me back. Pretty straightforward.

We picked up a couple of èclairs on the way home from getting the cash. Retiring to the bedroom, we consumed the dessert in a decidedly decadent manner before I drifted off, to be awakened by the obnoxious buzz of the alarm.

Not surprisingly, there was no money in my wallet. I assumed she didn’t own a car. Mine was probably sitting in some not-far-away town, while she performed for someone else.

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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press and the short story, “Accident Prone,” in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press.