The Light of Paris(73)

“Remember how Sharon said I was in a band with Kevin?”

“Yes!” This thought filled me with an inappropriately large sense of glee, and I clapped my hands together. “What kind of music? What instrument did you play?”

“Drums,” Henry said, slapping out a quick rhythm in the air. “And I wouldn’t call what we played music. It was mostly a lot of noise, but we categorized ourselves as hair metal.”

“Please tell me there are pictures of you with long hair.”

“You will never see them. I keep them locked up. Like the picture of Dorian Gray.”

“I don’t think that portrait was hidden out of eighties hair shame.”

“But don’t I look youthful?” He tossed his hair dramatically and I laughed out loud, surprised again at the sound of my own delight. “The point is I think about music sometimes, and how it was such a huge part of my existence, and how now I only think about it if I’m deciding what to play in the restaurant, or what to listen to on the way to work. And I don’t think, ‘That part of my life is over.’ I think, ‘That’s not as big a part of my life right now.’ So your painting, for a while, was ‘not right now,’ and now it’s time again.”

“Maybe,” I said. Maybe that was it—my life had only been on hold, waiting for me to pick it up again.

We began to walk again until we came to the other end of the street. Outside the Thai restaurant, Wanee’s children joyfully danced to the music. Next door was the knitting shop, and as advertised, I could see a group of women at the back of the store, sitting in a circle, talking and laughing, colorful suns of yarn in their laps. A group of people stood by the door, drinking wine and laughing, and a server with a tray of appetizers passed back and forth in front of the window.

Inside, it was hot and close, bodies pressed together looking at the art or just chatting in groups. Cassandra stopped by to give us a hug, and we looked at the art—wall hangings, quilted or woven, impossible combinations of texture and color. The fabric made the “do not touch” rule feel even harder, and my fingers itched when I looked at the quilted swirls, the feathery explosions of angora, the hidden glimmer of silvery thread. To keep my hands busy, I swiped more than my share of appetizers off the passing trays. My mouth was still full when Henry asked if I was ready to go. Tiny beads of sweat stood out at his hairline.

“Yeth,” I said around a mouthful of bruschetta.

“I’m glad you like my food,” Henry said as we stepped back out onto the street, the cool air rushing up to meet us as though we were long-lost friends.

I finished chewing and, ever the lady, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I like food in general. Don’t get a swelled head.”

“You’d never know it to look at you. You’re too thin.”

Shocked, I barked out a sharp laugh, loud enough to make the people around us turn and look. I covered my mouth and lowered my voice. “I guess that’s meant as a compliment, but if there is one thing I am not, it is too thin.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t like to comment on women’s bodies, but you look . . . hungry. I like to feed hungry people. And really, I like to watch anyone enjoying my food. You’re welcome at The Kitchen anytime.”

“Well, thanks.” I resisted the urge to look at his eyes to make sure he didn’t have a bad case of cataracts. I was used to either my mother’s or my husband’s acting as a missile defense system around my weight. If I had dessert twice in one week, Phillip was likely to go DEFCON 1 on the state of my thighs. It didn’t help that I was surrounded by women who seemed to have been poured into a precise mold, whereas I looked more like the one that had overflowed the mold and somehow been shipped out to the store anyway.

“Do you want to get a drink?” Henry asked. We had taken a few steps and were outside Java Good Day.

“Sure,” I said, and we stepped inside. Like most of the buildings on The Row, Java Good Day was in a renovated building, but it had survived the onslaught of modernization and the interior was exactly what a coffee shop should look like—battered wood floors, exposed brick walls, college radio playing, the last of the sun lying lazily across the tables. The smell of coffee brushed over my skin, wound itself into my hair, and I inhaled deeply. The coffee shop I’d gone to on The Row in high school hadn’t been nearly this nice, and I was a little jealous of the kids who would get to come to this one. It was a much better place to wallow in adolescent angst.

“What do you want?” Henry asked.

“I’ll have an Italian cream soda. Raspberry, if they have it.” What the hell. I was fairly sure I’d gained ten pounds already, I might as well go for the full spare tire.

“No coffee?”

“Ugh, no. I’d be up half the night.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be right back.”

Henry went to get in line while I wandered to the back of the shop. If I were to leave my fabulous life behind to open a coffee shop, this is exactly what I would want it to be, I thought. There was a bookshelf full of books people had abandoned, a row of tables with chessboards laid in them. A handful of college students, looking charmingly young, lounged on a pair of leather armchairs and a huge, bulky sofa.

Along the walls were photographs and paintings, and when I looked closer, each bore a tiny card with the artist’s name and the work’s title, along with a price. I could see an empty space where one had, presumably, sold. Henry walked up and handed me my soda, the cream tainted a pale pink from the raspberry syrup. “Thank you.”