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“I don’t care, Mom. I can’t change my schedule for the wedding of someone I don’t even know!”
“Oh.”
“I have to go now.”
I immediately hung up before she introduced her tradition of manipulation.
Fortunately, I was reminded of the art opening I wanted to attend on Saturday. I was to come with a partner sort of or a date, better put. However, I didn’t have one and had not seriously considered it.
From my seat, through the conspicuous door panel, I could see Fiona working undistracted on her computer. Her eyes were sharply fixated on her screen, but when a trespassing tendril of hair flew towards her eyes, she dexterously tucked it behind her ear and went on working.
She was decent enough, but I wouldn’t know if she’d want to be my date. It appeared particularly weird, but that didn’t stop me from approaching her.
“Do you need anything, sir? You should have called.” She frowned.
“No, that’s not it. Actually, I need a favor from you.”
“A favor?”
“Yes.” I breathed in. “You know about the art opening scheduled for this Saturday,”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good, it requires me to come with a date.”
“Okay,” she nodded slowly.
“Basically, I don’t have one, so I’m asking you to fill the void.” I finally hit the nail on the head.
“Oh,” I watched as her face gradually reddened. A woman’s flush.
“I’d be glad if you could be my date.” I thought it wise to say it properly.
“Well, who am I to say no?” She wryly chuckled.
But that was not the response I wanted, and as if she could read my mind, she added softly,
“I will be your date.”
Though I didn’t seek her opinion on what was best per se, I consulted Allison’s stylist, and she put me through it all. I ordered an entire package with a dress and accessories to be delivered to her by the end of the day.
*****
We stood side-by-side with our eyes fixated on a peculiar piece that strangely consisted of a human skull ridiculously adorned with several diamonds.
“For the Love of Life, Damien Hirst.“ Fiona read aloud.
“For the love of Life, how many diamonds are on that skull?”
“Thousands,” she muttered, turning her head here and there to satisfy her eyes.
“I don’t like paintings,” I murmured and gulped down my glass of wine in frustration.
“I think I know what it’s saying,” she glanced at me, her face glowing softly against the lights. She was pretty, and I was pleased with all I had chosen for her, but one suited her taste and skin color.
Unfortunately, she was not a fan of necklaces, so I had to have the French-customized filigree piece returned to the store.
“What is it saying?”
