Well, it was quite obvious why he waited...the last time didn't go so well. And he was pretty sure it would not be easy this time around either. But at least this time he had a quasi-plan...something he actually was pretty good at when it mattered.
Unfortunately the tattoo parlor didn't close til late, and he was forced to hang around the back of a parking lot that was strewn with yellow light, chain-link fencing and a few dark characters wandering through the lot but never getting into any car. He sat in his, making sure the doors were locked. Christ, maybe he was now a cop since he was definitely in a stake-out. He almost willed the parlor's back door open but it remained stuck close.
At some point it finally opened, the inside light framing her in a figurine shadow and he instantly knew it was her by the orange speck of a lit cigarrette. She turned over her shoulder to wave to somebody so she didn't see him as he got out of the car.
Her steps were small and light and she saw him in a brief instant, but didn't recognize and her path clearly pivoted away. She put down her head and glanced askew at him as he started towards her.
Hey Fair, he said...loudly. She stopped, head tilted slightly, squinting in the dark. He drew up both hands, almost in a "see I'm not carrying a gun" pose and walked towards her.
As he got close, and at that point when he knew she had recognized him, her face remained completely stoic. She may as well have been observing a moth's flutter beneath the lights. In fact, she looked tired. That was the only word he could find.
Hey...good evening. I didn't mean to pop up on you. You know, in case I scared you.
She drew in from the cigarette...but this time instead of blowing it at him she pursed her lip and blew the smoke sideways.
The shop's closed. In case you were suddenly brave enough.
He smirked. I'm still deciding about that...
Then why are you here?
He almost started a shrug, but knew that would look disingenuous. He was a good planner.
I actually wanted to ask you something. At this point he felt like she was still merely regarding him, and had the receptiveness of a pollster's request. She looked bored. Bored and tired.
His plan was kind of turning to a crap-sandwich.
Look, he started, we've had what, one, maybe 2 conversations? And they've been more about me not doing something. So, I figured I'd start somewhere. And that is to take you someplace where I'd be more comfortable. Here and he gestured with his arm around them this is kinda your territory. And you've made it very clear that I'm not entirely welcome.
She was lighting another cigarette as he spoke. I never said you weren't welcome. I just asked what you were doing if you weren't going to let me do my job.
Okay fair. I mean...fair like that's a fair statement. Not...you know, your name.
She blew smoke at him. What do you want. Not really a question, more like a statement...and then she looked at her watch.
I wanted to ask you to join me. I wanted to see if you'd accompany me and maybe take some time to spend it with me. He pulled out a thin envelope. Careful script was scrolled across the front. He handed it to her.
Major? she said.
Uhm, yeah...that's me. Well, that's my rank.
She regarded the writing on the envelope and slid out the flat white hard-board sheet, about 5 by 7 inches. She read the writing, an amused smile like she had just been let in on an inside joke crossed her lips. She must have read it two or three times.
You're fucking kidding me, right? She had stuffed the sheet back in the envelope and held it out to him.
He moved a bit closer. In the pale light her eyes were the color of the moon, an almost gray. She had done something with her hair, some new color to the mix.
I'm serious. He took the paper from her. He looked at it. I want you to come to this with me.
You want me to come with you? To the White House? She didn't look tired anymore. Her cheeks for some reason had briefly flared. Annoyance? He couldn't tell.
That was my plan.
And why should I go? Based on our, what is this, our third conversation?
Because.
Because?
Because I want to show you off.
She had almost recoiled. She definitely was slightly taken aback. You want to show me off? Like I'm a fucking tattoo of yours, just so you won't have to get one?
No. The opposite.
I don't understand.
I want to show you off like I'm a tattoo of yours...something that you'd want on your skin.
She stared at him with this. I don't know.
He held out the paper in front of him. Please take this. There's time. Don't decide now.
He turned from her and walked back to his car. When he got in he looked for her amongst the cars but she was gone.
The envelope sat in her front seat for three days, slightly covered by the Chik-fil-A bag that had been a dinner one night. She had almost forgotten it when she decided enough was enough. She needed to clean her car. As she gathered the empty bags she saw the envelope and the graceful curve of the typography. She threw the bags away and came back to the car, taking out the envelope. In the small parking space she looked at it, opened it and saw the image of the White House. She hurriedly tucked it back in and went inside.
The envelope sat tucked into her vanity mirror, a white space that she could see when she applied her make up. She had turned the front towards the rear, so as not to see the impressive writing. It, by itself in her room, had given the place a certain cachet. She tried to fight it. Like bringing in a bloom of flowers into an autopsy room, you could not ignore it nor could you imagine it even being there. But there it was. A stranger, actually, coming in and revealing a different place, another altogether place then she had even guessed at.
She pushed hard on the mascara and made it double thick. She wanted to be a little aggressive today.
But in the next day or two, in small hours, tiny minutes, she felt something pulling...a tide around her feet.
She was listening more to Orla Fallon, a favorite Irish harpist...it relaxed her..as she drew and thought of art she was playing in the background...she hadn't played it in years.
She was shaving her legs. Daily.
She would walk into her bedroom and she would gravitate her eyes towards the mirror...and see the contrasting white envelope against the darker room.
Fuck it she said to no one.
She stood in front of him, the envelope in her hand. Her arm was crooked, the hand in the air like the way you'd hold a ball for a dog. He felt like he knew the answer and steeled himself against the inevitable.
Okay she started. I will go.
He blinked at that and moved his feet.
But I'm going as a tourist. Not a date.
A tourist?
Yes. I'd like to see the White House.
Oh, okay. Well...will you at least like stand near me and stuff?
I might.
Great.
She broke the distance barrier between them and closed in almost uncomfortably. Her eyes were back to the 80's denim that he remembered. She was devoid of cigarette smoke, just a faint trace of a scent of something like a clean laundered sheet.
If it's not a date he started then what is it?
A chance she said.
With that she put a hand on his shoulder and brushed his cheek with her lips. The move surprised him but it surprised her even more.
Inadvertently his hand rose to the smear on his cheek.
Don't touch it she said. It's the only thing I've been able to mark you with so far.
He let his hand fall. She turned and went back inside the store, leaving him on the sidewalk.
In the car he pulled down the visor and slid open the mirror...he turned his head slightly and saw the crimson smear on his cheek. He left it there.
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