When We Collided(2)

“But she’s not under arrest. Yet, anyway.” He took a sip of his to-go coffee from Betty’s.

“Oh, I know she’s on duty,” I said. “I was just teasing her. Couldn’t resist—I’m crazy about dogs, and she’s a real gem. I can tell these things.”

“Yeah, she’s a good girl, aren’t ya, Babs?”

“Babs?” I asked, bristling. What a name for a police dog! Honestly, all the male German shepherds get to be Rex and Maverick and Ace.

“Kubaba, actually.”

Even more ridiculous, though I tried not to react.

“Well, nice to meet you, Kubaba,” I told the dog, and, turning back to her partner, I held out my hand. “I’m Vivi, by the way.”

He shook my hand. “You a law-abiding citizen?”

“I’ve never been under arrest.” I smiled, coy about quoting him. “Yet, anyway.”

But see, here’s the thing: after that, I went home and searched the name Kubaba. And now I understand Officer Hayashi well enough to know he’ll be kind to me.

“Hi!” I say, approaching his table. He’s staring down at the crossword, printing neatly with blue ink. “Vivi. From earlier this week? I accused your K-9 unit of being under arrest.”

He looks up, studying me as if I’m trying to trick him somehow. “I recall.”

“Kubaba,” I say, “was the only queen of Sumer in her own right. The only woman on the Sumerian King List.”

A smile creeps onto his face. “You looked her up, eh?”

A world of male shepherds trained to rip out a criminal’s throat, and he named his regal girl for what she is: their equal.

“Can I sit with you?”

He glances around, clearly trying to find another open seat he can dispatch me to. I just smile pleasantly, waiting for him to give in. Everyone does, eventually. His gaze shifts back to me. “Of course you can.”

Hmph. Old-timer snark, after which I am supposed to correctly ask, May I sit with you? But instead I settle into the booth across from him, thumping my bag down beside me.

And the good officer does not know what to do with me.

“You sure you never been arrested?” he asks. “You seem like the type. Disregarding social rules.”

I splay a hand on my chest, all drama. “Why, I would never.”

My lips press together, trying not to smile. See, even if I did get caught marking up the tree, I know Hayashi is an old softie underneath. When he returns to his crossword, I open my sketchbook to the page I was working on last night. My inspiration word is scrawled at the top and taunting me. To represent wabi-sabi, I meant to draw a simple pink gown, raw silk with a sort of ripped texture at the bottom. But I got caught up, and now it’s a girl wearing branches of cherry blossoms, pink petals fanning out as if she’s spinning.

I start over on the opposite page, occasionally stealing glances at my tablemate. When Hayashi doesn’t know an answer, he chews on the tip of his pen and scowls at the newspaper, as if the page will be intimidated into giving up the correct word.

“Hey, doll baby,” Betty says to me, pouring coffee into my mug. I drink coffee for the taste, of course, since caffeine is the last thing I need. Most of the things I do in life are for flavor, not necessity. “On to the waffles?”

My first morning here, I ordered the first item on the menu—the Classic Omelet—so I just decided I’d try everything, in order. I’ve worked through all the omelets already. “Yes, please! Sounds positively divine.”

“Here you are, Pete.” She sets a plate in front of him. Sunny-side-up eggs and crispy bacon on warm biscuits. Mmmm. I haven’t gotten to that column yet.

“So.” He picks up his fork. “What’s with the Marilyn Monroe thing?”

I touch the ends of my curls. “It’s not a Marilyn thing. It’s a me thing.”

He’s digging into his food, not even paying attention. “Okay.”

Oh, honestly, can’t a gal do something for the hell of it? I’ve gained some weight in the past few months, and the curves are new to me. So I thought, You know, what better time to dye my hair platinum blond and cut it to a length between my earlobes and shoulder tops? I spun big sections of blond into foam curlers and drenched the whole mess in home-perm chemicals. I don’t even really know anything about Marilyn Monroe. But girlfriend was on to something with her short, curly hair. Bouncing on top of my head, it feels fun and light and like I’d be ready to roll if the forest pixies ever ask me to go dancing with them. And as long as my hair is going to be all Marilyn-y, I figured I’d try out some red lips and nails.

I’ve read that animal coloration can be for mimicry or protection or for signaling to a predator or a potential sexual mate. Ha! Perhaps my platinum dye and red lips and pink cheeks are all of the above. Or perhaps I just like plumage.

When the waffles arrive, I push my sketchbook aside to make room, and I dig in and oomph! Carb heaven, golden and buttery and dusted with powdered sugar.

Officer Hayashi is staring down at my sketchbook page. He uses a chunk of biscuit to mop up the last of his runny egg yolk. “Wabi-sabi. You know what that is?”

“As I understand it,” I say, trying to sound academic, “it’s an untranslatable word. Wabi can mean rustic or stark or transient. Sabi is like . . . faded. Or fading. Old. Together, I guess it’s like seeing beauty in simplicity and nature. In fleeting moments and even in decay.”