Page 20 of Finding Parker

“Pardon me?” I said over my shoulder as I released the napkins into the trash.

“Dropped it. As in dropped. You were holding it,” she said, her hand held at arm’s length, cupping her palm into a circle.

“You looked like you were in a daze. Maybe you were in shock from the girl that just dumped you, I don’t know. But the cup just fell out of your hand. I watched it happen. It was in slow mo,” she said jokingly, acting as if she were dropping a cup from her hand as she spoke.

“She didn’t dump me,” I responded as I walked her direction.

“Sure looked to me like it,” she raised her eyebrows as if in wait for an explanation.

“I don’t believe it’s fair to her if I discuss the conversation’s intricacies with you, so I’ll hit he highlights. We went to dinner. She had hopes it would turn into a more in depth relationship. I, on the other hand, had no intention of pursuing anything romantic with her. She explained her hopes. I explained, or at least attempted to explain, my lack of desire,” I smiled, satisfied at having explained the situation delicately.

“Wow. You make it sound like a business transaction,” she said as she placed her hands on her waist.

“Not at all. Or at least it’s not my intent. She was sweet, just not what I desire in a mate. There was no value in continuing. It would not have been fair to her or to her emotions,” I explained as I motioned to the empty chairs.

“Listening to you talk is like reading a textbook,” she said as she turned toward the table where she was previously seated.

“I’ll sit for a while, let me grab my stuff,” she said as she rotated her wrist and looked down at her watch.

In returning with her purse and magazines, she sat down and smiled. Her hair appeared to be more light brown than blonde. With her right side facing the storefront windows, her hair shimmered in the sunlight. Satisfied to be seated with her, but feeling somewhat like a modern day pimp, I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“I’m not going to attack you, don’t get defensive already,” she said as she pointed to my chest.

“Excuse me?” I responded, with one eyebrow slowly rising.

“Your arms. They’re crossed. It’s a defensive posture. Anyway, I don’t have much time. I just thought we could talk. I won’t bring up the girl or talk any more shit. Promise,” she said as she extended her hand over the top of the table.

“Okay,” I smiled, pleased at her gesture.

I took her hand in mine and shook it, finding the surface of her palm surprisingly rough. Although I preferred holding it to not, I quickly released it from my grasp so as to not make her feel self-conscious regarding her leathery skin. As I began to consider the cause of her rough skin, she smiled and placed her hands in her lap.

“So, I’ve been coming here for years. And in the last week or so, I have seen you here twice. Never previously, but twice in the last week. What gives, Parker? It’s Parker, right?” she asked softly.

“Yes, I’m Parker. You’ve got a good memory,” I hesitated; somewhat frustrated that she wasn’t sure of my name.

“I just graduated college and after becoming employed, moved to the neighborhood. I live here in Old Town. I just found this place a week or so ago, and I like it. It’s a nice place to relax. What’s your fascination with it?” I asked.

“I come here to read. Dream. Relax. Find bits and pieces of myself I’m afraid I may not find elsewhere. Generally, before work,” she raised her right hand from her lap and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“What do you mean? Bits and pieces of yourself?” I asked, intrigued by her statement.

“You know. Well, you probably don’t. I work as a prep cook in El Cajon. I take care of my mother when I am not working. The two consume me. So, the three places one might find me? Here. Work. Or home. That’s it. I come here to read my books, magazines, and dream,” using her right hand, she turned her head slightly and raked her hair behind her left ear.

“You don’t do anything else?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Ever?” I asked.

“Never.”

“Out to eat? Go to a bar? Hit the beach?” I asked.

“Nope. Nope. Nope.”

“I’m sorry you aren’t able to get out more. And regarding your mother, if I may ask, is she sick?” I asked softly.

“I guess you could say that. She was injured years ago. She suffers from chronic incurable pain. She’s addicted to painkillers, and for the most part, bed ridden,” she responded, raising her left hand from her lap and clenching her fist in her palm.