Artsy

I saw her approaching. My goodness but she is fetching. My English has improved with my travels, fetching is a word of the elite.

“That’s who she is! She is that beautiful woman from the lacquer painting class. An Aussie I thought but maybe a kiwi. Shoulder length brown hair perfectly coiffed to expose the exquisite lines of her beautiful visage, she had one of those faces designed to smile. She would never age; added years would do nothing but further expose her grace. “

My thoughts raced as I imagined the conversation we would have. 

My ego told me she was looking right at me as she scurried in my direction on her perfectly sculpted legs. I looked around to see what she was really looking at. I returned my gaze to her and noted that her blouse was open just wide enough expose a bit of cleavage, oh so classily. Victoria’s Secret I thought; I could sense just a hint of her lacy brassiere. She was looking at me, seeking me. I struggled to raise my eyes to meet hers as she closed the distance. She is heading my way. Luck I thought. Good luck. We are going to be on a flight together. Yes. And I had not checked in yet. Luck. We would arrange it. We would sit together. We would discuss art. That’s what we would do. Of course.

“Are there any galleries in Phnom Penh?” I would say, “Well we certainly will find out!” she will reply. Everything we will say will be accentuated with a duet of affectionate giggles. “A hotel reservation? OF course not. Where are you staying?” Our imaginary conversation worked its way through my mind as my adrenaline rushed. Big smile. She is almost here. I return her smile as I now know her’s is for me.

“Hey!” She says with a beautiful ANZAC accent. Ok. It is one or the other but I know not which. I can’t tell the difference. I will ask; a talking point.

 “How ya’ going?” She asks.

 “To Cambodia”, I reply clumsily, knowing not whether she was asking how or where.

“Great! I hope you love it there.”

It occurs to me that she has a different destination. “I haven’t bought my ticket yet.” I add with a bit of a squeak. Disappointment mixed with hope?

“I’m going home!” She said. “So excited! I haven’t been in years.”

“Where is home?”

“Auckland.” It sounded like Oakland. The rein of confusion had begun.  

I was not yet versed in the geography of that part of the world or any other for that matter and “Auckland” sounded like it should be in Australia or maybe next to San Francisco.  

“New Zealand!” she continued undoubtedly reading the look of stupid on my face. (the word stupid on my forehead/tattooed on the front of my skull. A Persian friend of mine once told me that I had one of those faces that could be read much like a book. I remember him telling me this was some kind of gift. This may be true but I was hoping she could turn some pages as I was obviously stuck on the one which read: stupid.”

“Oh yes of course!” I say with an air of familiarity. “My friend Wayne has invited me there several times. Your country must be gorgeous.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it my country exactly. I was born and raised an Aussie.”

“Downhill.” I thought. That is where this going. And now I have an uphill battle. And neither my legs nor my jaw will get me up the hill. The hoof I have stuffed so firmly in my mouth will prevent this.

“It’s ok.” she smiled or maybe I should say she continued to smile. She seemed excessively happy to see me, if I was a more perceptive person I could have known her grin was certainly hiding something; something she could not wait to reveal.

“Wow! It has been a long time since I last saw you! I certainly enjoyed your work.” I said.

“I am surprised! I am surprised you remember!”

“Oh certainly. You are not exactly forgettable.” I cooed believing I had delivered a line worthy of Bogart or Brando.

“Really??? I am surprised you can remember anything!”

Her grinning was actually getting annoying. I felt dizzy as though she was actually sucking the brain out of my head or physically spinning me in a circle. I wanted to tell her to stop. I suppose a quizzical look replaced the stupid one and she must have sensed that I was ready for an explanation.

“Well you are certainly looking good man! Healthy I mean.” She declared.

Relief. I would have exhaled but I was too busy sticking my chest out and holding my stomach in. It was at this time I noted that she had a Premier Class tag on her carry on.

“You know, we really missed you when you stopped coming to class.”

“Missed me? I still came on weekends.” I said defensively. Though, in reality, even my weekend visits had ceased. I wanted to take this back as I knew a compliment was on its way. After all, I was the only male in the class and the teacher’s pet to boot. And our instructor was one of the greatest living lacquer painters, a national treasure in Vietnam. Hell! I had even dated the teacher’s daughter, an accomplished artist herself.

“We used to take bets!” She continued with a joy that seemed almost immeasurable. Her face though smiling seemed somehow demonic and cruel. 

“Yep! We used to bet on you!”

“Worthy of a wager I was!” I thought. Relief once again, oh what I would give to heave a heavy sigh. “But bet? On what?” I wondered.

She let me take it in for what seemed an eternity and then after apparently recognizing I was not clever enough to ask on what, she didn’t bother with a clue!

“We would bet on when you would fall off your stool!” (I had never heard the stool pronounced quite like that, it sounded much more like “You Fool!” Which is what I was..)

Crashing it came down on me, all of a sudden. Here I stood in my ego driven talent laden pose, waiting with great expectations for her (the) declarations of her admirations of my work (lifelong endeavours), my artistic talent and it was my drunkenness that impressed her. (had her attentions) And I suppose she must have bet in my favour as she seemed a bit positive, even if was in a contemptuous sort of way.

I wondered if she was through as she scurried away accompanied by the increasing the volume of her laughter in that hollow hell of the Hanoi airport as the distance between us grew. I was ready for second helping of grief. Would she not turn around for an encore?

I never did fall off my stool though I must have come close. I am certain I lost consciousness regularly as I endured those hours in my drunken inferno and most likely was brought back to life more than once by my head bouncing off my worktable. It was due to the grace of god that I never wore a lacquer painting home stuck to my forehead on one of those dark days. She left me wondering if I had ever showed up even close to sober. 

I suppose shock would best describe my state as I suffered sobriety on the plane to Phnom Penh. I recalled my anguish on those mornings; toiling away after drunken sleepless nights. Taking uncommonly long toilet breaks, falling asleep on but not quite falling off the porcelain throne. I would sometimes perch myself in such a way that I would try to prop my head against the door of the stall, but it was a dangerous reach so I would crush myself against the side wall to spend a precious moment or two in the world of the unconscious. I could remember scouting out the stall that had the most toilet paper on the roll so that I could rest my head on its softness. This the ladies did not see but they certainly could imagine.

 My time at the table painting was not so different but in my drunkenness I believed it to be. The suave dedicated artist I fancied myself was to her crowd a stinking drunken man wobbling back and forth on my three legged stool not in an overly imbibed display of dedication but rather as a spectacle, like a teetering drunk in the bleachers of a sports contest.

I thought of her and her crew when we were at cruising altitude. “Envy I decided. They all envied me. Jealousy must be a hard pill to swallow. She is probably having a helluva time deciding what to wash it down with right now, looking through some menu in the first class cabin in that crappy plane she was on.”

“Looking?” I thought as my eyes strode elegantly through the pay for what you drink menu on the low budget airline I was flying. Not me. “Peruse” I thought. “I am perusing the menu. That’s what folks like me do.”  If there was anything alcoholic stronger than beer on the menu, I am sure I would have ordered. It had been months since I had a drink but after that shellacking, I thought I deserved a few.