Pentimento

Noah Jameson tucks in his shirt, unrolls the bottom of his pant leg (he has biked to the museum), and smooths back his dark hair. He is late. Only eight minutes, but he prides himself on being early, usually. And for a blind date, too. Oops, not a great start.

He rushes up the wide stone stairs, past the three-story tall banners advertising the new exhibition on Van Gogh, and into the massive entryway. The museum is free, like all of them on the National Mall in D.C., but he still has to pass the security checkpoints. Just last week someone snuck in some ketchup and splattered it all over a Dali painting, claiming the press garnered by this act of sabotage would bring attention to their cause. Ironic that Noah couldn’t remember that cause now.

The security guard is big and slightly round and takes Noah’s leather man-bag, places it in a plastic tray, and pushes it into the scanner.

Noah gives the obligatory cursory nod and steps through the empty doorway that does whatever magnetic or radiation magic it does to detect if he, too, is carrying any nefarious ketchup with which to do sabotage.

A bead of sweat sticks to his temple and he wipes it away, wondering if any of the cameras pointed at the crowd might mistake his pedaler’s efforts for anxiety about being caught red-handed, as it were, with said ketchup.

“Sir, step over here, please.” A woman with hair as red as Heinz, tucked up in a bun, gestures to Noah.

His shoulders slump. Even later, he’ll now be for his first blind date. His first ever blind date. Will she wait? His friend Ramón had set it up. Noah was reluctant at first, but figured he didn’t have much to lose at this point in his life. With thirty just a few weeks away, a stable job, a reliable pile of books to keep him company, he’d started to wonder why he needed a mate at all.

But he likes people. And he likes girls. So he agreed when Ramón suggested the idea. Frankly, the fact that Ramon had done all the legwork to get them the date actually made it easier on him.

The museum is chill, no doubt the cold reflected by the copious use of locally-sourced granite during construction almost a hundred years ago. So maybe that’s why the red-bunned security guard has singled him out. She’d seen his lone sweat drop and targeted him unnecessarily.

He steps aside, as ordered. Besides, she is cute. A little older than him, but not by much. 

French, her name tag says. Would he address her as Agent French, then? 

He opts for the more familiar. “Hello.”

She smiles politely and waves to a male security guard nearby. An ugly man with a permanent scowl and a bad case of acne, his uniform two sizes too big and his belt cinched tight around a skeleton frame. He holds up one finger in response, One sec.

“I don’t mind. You can wand me,” Noah says to the woman, then immediately flashes red, hearing the words after he says them. “Uh, I mean, I’m just late and need to get going so---”

“Sorry, sir, just protocol.” She smiles again, that polite smile with a dimple in one cheek.

“Okay, understood.” 

She looks behind him, watching more patrons walk through the irradiated or magnetic gateway, whatever it does to keep them safe from ketchup-wielding saboteurs. 

“Must be a cool place to work,” Noah says.

“It is,” she replies, more enthusiastically than he had expected. He notices the tightness of her shirt around her abdomen. She is fit. And by the size of the biceps in the shirt snug on her arms, strong too. 

Noah briefly wonders how strong. Could he beat her in an arm-wrestling match? 

He suddenly has the desire to hold her hand, the red-painted fingernails, their faces all the closer so he could admire the freckles mixed across her cheeks and over her nose.

“Do you have a favorite?” he asks.

“Favorite?”

“Artist. Or painting. Any recommendations on where we--I should go first?”

“Oh, the museum,” she says, laughing, and the tinkle of it cracks Noah’s heart. Damn. He is late to a blind date, but maybe this was the one Ramón should have seen coming. Could it really be that easy? Why shouldn’t it be?

“The new Van Gogh exhibit is quite something,” she says, but with an air of hesitation, like she is holding back.

“But?”

She smirks and takes a step closer to him, to speak in confidence. “I like the older masters. Rembrandt is my favorite. He can paint a pair of pantaloons like no one’s business.” That sparkler laugh again sets off fireworks of his own.

“You know your stuff, sounds like.”

“Art major, one more year ’til graduation.”

At this age? Maybe Noah has overestimated her years. 

She picks up on his perception. “I was in the Marine Corps after high school. Two years of that paid for my college.”

“Good deal.” That explains the muscles. “In that case, maybe I don’t want you to wand me.” Noah chuckles at his own terrible joke.

She puts up her dukes ready to shadow box, but with a grin.

“Woah woah, police brutality!” Noah throws up both hands, surrendering easily. Happy to surrender to her, actually.

She shakes out her hands and looks back to her colleague who is still stuck with another customer.

A moment of silence where their eyes meet, but it doesn’t feel awkward or “pregnant,” as they say. It feels more like they’re just hanging outside of time and nothing more pressing in the world than spending a few more moments together, in this moment.

“So if your college is paid for, what are you doing here working?” he asks, lamely. It is an obvious attempt to engage her further. 

She sees it for what it is, but instead of scoffing as he expects she might do, she appreciates the gesture and returns with a playfully snarky response.

“Why aren’t you working instead of going to museums in the middle of a Tuesday?”

Ha, fair point! He blurts out a laugh, her having caught him off-guard for this type of retort.

“Well, I have some ketchup in my bag and . . .”

She grunts. “Eco terrorists.”

“Terrorists, that’s a strong word.”

“Yes, yes it is. Damn hippies thinking they’re doing something good by trying to ruin some art. Of course, the Dali they splattered was behind plexiglass, so they didn’t actually do anything.”

“Just trying to make a point, I guess.”

“No point made. They were probably illegals, too.”

Noah’s butt cheeks physically clench at the gaff. 

She notices his reaction, and presses: “Hopefully Trump will win office again and kick ‘em all out.”

Well, this has taken a turn. Noah feels trapped.

The pimply guard finally arrives. He wands Noah while Agent French looks on.

After the guard is done waving the plastic magic scepter over Noah’s private parts, Noah turns to leave. The security gate alarms and catches his attention, and that of the guards.

A brunette, long stringy hair, carrying a bunch of books, adjusts her glasses and drops a bag to the floor. “Oh, sorry! Must be my art supplies. So sorry.” 

She steps back through the security gate, which alarms again, and puts the satchel on the conveyor.

She speaks to no one in particular. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. Here for a blind date and I’ve never done that before and I really like art and my friend Samantha said this boy is into art too and I’m running late and I’m usually not late but my bike chain got caught in my pant leg and now I’m--”

The red-haired woman has intercepted her at the gate with a tight-lipped frown. She escorts the patron through the security checkpoint and indicates to the woman to hold her hands up. Noah is transfixed at the sight of her, too. Two in one day, really? 

All attraction to Agent French has vanished, replaced by a curious intrigue about this new girl, who arrived by bike, who is here for a blind date. The slender girl who is not muscular, but who carries a pile of books on art, who is nervous and excited to -- meet him, could it be?

Noah waits where he is for Agent French to finish her search of the brown-haired art student, then as she is rushing toward him, he catches her eye.

“Naomi?”

She skids to a halt, surprised, adjusts her glasses and smiles. “Noah?”

“I was late too,” he says.

This is funnier than it should be for both of them. Noah was caught off guard by the guard, but realizes he dodged a bullet there. And now Naomi in front of him seems infinitely more interesting. 

“Okay, shall we go see the Van Gogh exhibit?” he asks.

“Yes!” she says. “And, by the way, don’t you think it’s ironic we’re on a blind date at an art museum?”

He grins. 

Oh, yes, Naomi is much more his type of fine art.