“Did you catch the Mariners last night?” Tim asked.
“No.” I never paid much attention to sports unless Rob was on the field. “Did you go?”
“Yeah. My dad scored two seats right behind home plate. Things were tied until the bottom of the ninth. Then the Yankees pitcher fell apart, and we hit a homer with bases loaded. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Minutes later he laughed as he described an interception at a recent Seahawks football game. Apparently he fancied sports as much as my father.
“Then what happened?” I asked, inhaling a yawn.
At the end of the evening, we stood for a moment on my front porch. In an impulsive move, I thanked him with a kiss. Our lips barely touched. Wanting to be held, I almost pulled him nearer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go out with him again. Did we really have much in common? Tim hadn’t asked me about my job or even about my son. Maybe Susan hadn’t mentioned Rob, which might be just as well. Finding out a woman has a child whose voice is deeper and shoulders broader than his own might scare a man away.
“I enjoyed your company, pretty lady,” he said, hesitating as if he had more to say. Then he took a step back. “I’ll give you a call.”
“Thank you.” Was I thanking him for the movie or his promise to call? It didn’t matter. The ball was in his court.
I hadn’t visited the campus museum once since my college days. But Emily’s conversation had touched me with its honesty; I contemplated going just to see her. “Bring your sketchpad,” she’d told me. “We’ll be using them.”
Standing in my kitchen, I had less than forty-eight hours to draw something before class night. With no open house scheduled for the weekend, there was time to sketch right now. I glanced around the room, hoping to find a subject. The small wrought-iron chandelier, with its four arms branching out to hold flame-shaped bulbs, floated above the kitchen table. The wall hutch, crammed with Rob’s art projects from grade school and one of his lacrosse team photos, hung next to his framed first-grade self-portrait. Magnets of all shapes and sizes holding pizza coupons, Cathy cartoons, and articles I thought I might need someday littered the face of the refrigerator. My mud-caked walking shoes lay by the back door next to Charlie’s basket. Did my house smell like a dog? I wondered. It must, after twelve years of his canine presence.
I picked up my cereal bowl, which still sat on the table from breakfast, and dumped the remnants of uneaten shredded wheat into the garbage can under the sink. Then I set the bowl in the sink on top of several dirty plates and a pan that had been soaking overnight. Dribbling liquid detergent over the stack, I turned on the hot water.
I would draw as soon as I tidied up, I told myself. As I scrubbed the pan, I remembered how, back in college, I could fill a notebook with drawings in one afternoon. In my cramped dorm room, messy chaos hadn’t made any difference to me. I’d sat cross-legged on my paisley bedspread with the sketchpad on my lap, outlining my roommate Candy while she drew me. Then I would stare out the window and draw the distant Cascade Mountains or the evergreen trees standing tall outside the dorm.
I rinsed the pan and set it in the drying rack. In my junior year, I recalled, an instructor challenged each student in the class to finish seven oil paintings in a week. I had executed them with gusto, not worrying what else demanded my attention, or whether they were good enough or finished enough. Painting them had been like playing a game: challenging, but fun.
The phone rang. I dried my hands to answer it.
“Hi there,” Tim said. “I sure had fun last night.”
“Me too.” I’d woken up with him on my mind. Tim was as cute as they come, I’d thought as I lay in bed. How many single men of his caliber would swim my way?
“I know this might be rushing things, but I have tickets to the Seahawks game this afternoon. A client gave them to me, and they’re great seats. Would you like to go?”
I found football tedious and tried to think of a reasonable excuse not to go, but that was stupid. I wanted to see him again, didn’t I?
“Yes, I’d love to.” I raced to take a quick shower, then tried styling my hair in a provocative new manner, but ended up parting it the same as always. Dark circles, blotchy skin, and crow’s-feet all needed to be artfully concealed. I shuddered to think any man might see me as I really was. In my twenties, even my thirties, I’d blushed with fresh beauty, and thought women who wore tons of makeup were crazy. Not anymore.
As I tucked in my blouse and zipped up my slacks, I heard Charlie growl his warning that a car had stopped in front of the house. He was barking ferociously by the time the doorbell jangled. I dashed down and swung the door open, but Charlie continued yapping up at Tim’s face.
“Hi,” I said over the dog’s throaty blasts. “Go into the kitchen, bad dog.” Charlie stood for a defiant moment, then retreated several feet
“Cute,” Tim said.
“Sorry. He usually doesn’t bark that much.” Stupid dog.
“He’ll love me once he gets to know me.” Tim pulled two tickets from his jacket pocket and fanned his face with them. “I’m glad you could come. These seats are in the one-hundred level at the fifty-yard line. Can
