New Orleans, 2016
“Just go talk to her already.”
“Naw, man. I’m good. Let’s just finish these beers and get out of here.”
“You can’t keep your eyes off of her. You’ve been staring at her all night. Just man up, walk over there, and talk to her.”
“It’s too soon. I’m not ready yet.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s been almost six months. Months! It’s past time you stopped moping around and shit. It’s not like you and Sheila were married. Shit happens. Get over it, and get on with life.”
“Look, man. Just give me a break, will you? Not everyone subscribes to your ‘love is a lie’ philosophy, ok? I love…ed Sheila. No, we weren’t married. Not yet, anyway. I thought we were heading that way, though. I’m still in shock. I’m numb. I feel dead inside…like there’s nothing left. I’m all used up. Sheila left, and she took everything I owned. She took everything I had…including my heart. I got nothing left, man. Nothing left of me.”
“Oh Jesus H. Christ. Cry me a fucking river, will you? Boo fucking hoo. My girlfriend left me and threw all my shit in the river, and now I’m all sad and broken and shit.
“Get the fuck over it, already. Look, I know it sucks. I’ve been there. But you have got to pull your shit together. Put all that shit in the past and forget about it. Sheila, Eddie, your ’69 Camaro and all the rest of your shit at the bottom of the goddamned Mississippi river—all that shit—is over and done now. You need to get over it. Pick up the pieces and move on.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“Look, I can’t take any more of this whining bullshit. Unlike some people I know, I actually have to get up and go to work in the morning. You remember work, don’t ya, Benny-boy? Guns? Handcuffs? Lots of sirens and flashing lights? Any of this ringing a bell?”
Ben didn’t say anything, but he nodded slightly. Johnny got up, handed some money to the bartender, and walked out. The woman he had been glancing at all night suddenly stood up, and walked over to Ben. He looked at her and gave her a weak smile as she approached him.
She was, he decided, even more beautiful than he had first thought. Her red hair fell in gentle curls around her face, and her deep green eyes flashed with intelligence and hinted at a sexy playfulness. Her skin was ghostly pale, and her curves were…well, he tried not to notice her curves, but they were hard not to notice. Ben stood up as she got close to the table, and pulled out a chair for her.
“So chivalry is decidedly not dead,” she said with a smile. He smiled back at her, but there was sadness in his eyes. They sat down together, and as he looked into her eyes, he decided that honesty was probably the best policy.
“Look. I’m really not interested. It’s not that you’re not pretty or whatever. I mean, you are pretty. Beautiful, even. Really beautiful. But I just got out of a bad relationship, and I’m not ready for another one. I’d be a lousy one-night stand, and my heart can’t handle anything more than that, so whatever you’re looking for, I just don’t have it, okay? I’m really, really sorry.”
“You could never take the place of my man? Is that what you’re saying?” she asked, with a wry smile.
“Huh?”
“It’s a Prince song. You know, Prince? She began to sing:
‘Baby, don’t waste your time.
I know what’s on your mind.
You wouldn’t be satisfied with a one-night stand,
and I could never take the place of your man.’
“Know that one?”
“I guess I must have missed it. I’m not much of a Prince fan. I like the way you sing, though. And that accent…killer. So where are you from?”
“Ahhh so does that mean that we might actually have a conversation after all?”
Ben looked up, caught the wicked gleam in her eye, and laughed despite himself. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s the accent. I have a…thing…for accents. Foreign languages, too.” He didn’t think it would be very chivalrous to mention that he also had a “thing” for red hair and green eyes, so he left that part out.
“The accent is Spanish. Barcelona, to be precise. That’s where I was born and where I spent my childhood. Despite lengthy stays in both England and the United States, I never managed to lose it completely.” She flashed a wicked grin, and said, “I can also help you with the foreign languages. Spanish, of course, but I also speak Latin, Italian, and French.”
“Wow. That’s…I’m impressed! And you speak all of them fluently?”
“Yes, more or less. To be completely honest, my French is a bit rusty.”
“But not the Latin? That seems a bit…weird to me.”
“Well, I use Latin almost every day. I am an art historian, and my area of expertise is Medieval Art and Literature. Reading Latin is just part of it. I can speak it, too, but it’s not the sexiest sounding language. I doubt it would entice you very much. Not as much as Spanish, for example, and certainly not as much as modern Italian. Modern Italian is much sexier than its Latin roots.”
“I believe it,” Ben said. “So what brings you to New Orleans?”
“I’ve been hired by The New Orleans Museum of Art to help them identify some pieces they recently acquired.”
“Really? That’s cool. I love NOMA. I’ve spent many, many afternoons over there, just soaking up the culture. In my free time, I love to paint. I find a lot of inspiration at NOMA, and the sculpture garden is a great place to relax. I take a small sketchbook with me sometimes, and practice sketching people as they walk by. It’s very therapeutic.”
“Oh, so you are an artist! How wonderful! Perhaps one day, you will paint my portrait, Monsieur Artiste!”
“Welll….it’s mostly just a hobby. I’m actually a cop. Ex-cop, maybe. I’ve been on leave for so long that I doubt the captain will let me back in through the door. But artist? No. I love painting, but I never could figure out a way to pay the bills with my art, so I gave up and got a day job.”
“A police officer! How very noble of you. So you protect the innocent for a living, create masterpieces of art in your spare time, and charm women with your chivalry. You sound too good to be true, Monsieur Artiste. Do you ride a horse, too? Are you a knight in shining armor?”
Ben laughed out loud. “Well, the chivalry just comes naturally. That’s part of growing up here in the South. Sadly, being a cop is less about protecting the innocent and more about doing a shit-ton of paperwork. It really isn’t that special. And my art…well, that just keeps me sane. I doubt that I will ever produce anything worthy of being displayed at NOMA.”
“I think Monsieur Artiste is simply being modest. Very well. Have it your way, but I will still think of you as my knight in shining armor, and I am your damsel to rescue, Sir Knight.”
Ben blushed, and smiled broadly. “Thank you for the confidence booster, but really…I’m just a simple man, living a simple life. But you! Spain, England, the US…it seems like you’ve led quite the interesting life! Let’s hear about that now, shall we?”
“Ah yes. España, England, and the U.S. But also Italy, France, Russia, and even Japan for a while. We can talk about all of these and more, but it is getting late, Monsieur Artiste. Perhaps if you tell me your real name, we can meet again to discuss such things.”
“Benjamin, but everyone calls me Ben. And you are….?”
“Katharine, but nobody, and I mean nobody, calls me Kathy,” she said, with a grin.
“Katharine it is, then,” Ben said with a smile.
She smiled and stood up. He stood up as she did, and she grinned. “Again with the chivalry. Better be careful, Ben. A woman could get used to that.”
“And a guy could definitely get used to that accent, Katharine. Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.”
She winked at him, and turned to walk away. He watched her leave, mesmerized by her curves. He finished his last beer, and asked the bartender to call a cab. He made it all the way home without thinking about Sheila, and he fell asleep with a smile for the first time in months.