Artists & Chalk

They walked amongst the colors, the tabletops strewn with glass and lacquers…artisans and crafts, the smell of funnel cake wafting through the air.  It was hot, windless…he had bought her a strawberry margarita and that had been devoured quickly.

Her cheeks were high pink.

She had purchased some silver earrings and a pair of low boots that had the Star of Texas on them.  Wrapped in white paper they were now in a bag that he carried.  She dawdled as she walked by certain stalls, smelling a candle, crinkling her nose.  She laughed at the stuffed armadillos, looked intensely at the dried flowers and fingered the ends of an orange scarf.  He watched her from afar, bemused.  She caught him staring and flashed a quick smile but then immediately started picking up some soaps.

Music started from across the long lawn, on a stage where a man and a violin played with two singers and guitars. The sounds followed them as they drifted amongst the people.

It was a soundtrack of an afternoon.

He had come out in a whim, knew that she had been out there and he almost discounted the effort in fear that she would think he was essentially stalking her.  He wasn’t, and she knew that, but he also didn’t want to break the icicle-fragility of their interactions.  She had actually been pleasantly surprised, or at least that is how he remembered it.  And mentioned this artists’ market and this afternoon and then he was suddenly watching her in the heat.  

It was abundantly clear that she was home…the way she walked, the smile, the energy.  She had chatted in the car ride over, pointing out restaurants and places, describing the streets and the stores.  He had never really heard her talk so much…and he drove mostly in silence, listening to the sound of her.  Once she had finally asked

               Am I talking too much?

               God no.  I think you’re talking just the right amount.

He turned and she had a bit of a frown on.

               I think you’re just excited to see me he offered.

               She laughed and then started abuzz again, describing a food (a donut?  He couldn’t remember) that she absolutely craved.  He made a mental note to remind her later so he could find it for her.  He found himself doing that more often…remembering her likes, her unique requests, her subtle hints…and he wrote them on the chalkboard of his mind, hoping he could create a list that would help her feel exceptional.  He felt she deserved that.

The artists market was much bigger than he thought it would be, and the walkways were crowded and parking was a bitch.  But he could sense her growing anticipation, her shifting in her seat, her looking around, the drumming of her hands on the seat.  It was like a kid pulling up to an amusement park.

They ended up at the food area, where the smoke and the smells were visceral…you could almost taste the air.  They had lunch, lemonade and sat at a picnic table by themselves, watching the others.  He wandered over to the cotton candy stand and came back with a big pink ball on a cone, wrapped in plastic.

               Aren’t you having any? She asked

               Nah, I’m good.

               More for me then.

               Yes.  More for you.

She was straddling the bench, facing him, plucking large pieces of the candy and popping them in her mouth, licking her fingers with the sticky sweet sugars.  Her hair slightly moving in a sudden wind, crossing her face, and she pushed it away.

               Why are you looking at me like that? she said.

               I’m just trying to remember this moment.  That’s all.

               Oh.  And what will you remember the most?

He nudged towards her a little bit more, the distance between them dangerously close.  He could see her eyes in full bloom, and he saw a small rivulet of sweat alongside her ear.  He watched her eating the cotton candy and he lifted his hand to her, just beneath her ear and alongside her neck. Her skin was warm.

He kissed her, his lips slowly falling on hers, tasting the sugars and the yield of her mouth against his.  He felt one of her arms on his shoulder.  It was brief, it was concise.  It was a flashbulb.

He pulled away, slightly, their eyes were so very close now.  She had a smile, and one hand held the cone and the other a clump of candy.

               This is what I’ll remember.

In the heat of the afternoon he could hear the music again, he could smell the scents from the cotton candy mixing with the sugars of the funnel cake stand.  He could feel the warm wood of the picnic table, the growing warmth of the sun on his neck.  He watched her finish the candy, popping the last piece in her mouth.  In his mind, in the chalkboard dedicated to her and the things she loved, he rapidly scribbled cotton candy in capital letters with a star next to it.

They got up and joined the thickening crowds.  It looked like a storm might break up the afternoon.  He could only hope.