by Israel Allen
I spend my time in a little coffee house in downtown Asheville, reading, writing, and staring at the paintings on the wall. My favorite is a portrait of this red-haired woman, maybe twenty-seven, with lovely, porcelain skin. Her head is tilted, a few degrees back and left, the slightest curve of a smile on her lips, blue eyes bright with anticipation, as though she is listening to a set-up, the punch line fated to dawn on her simultaneous with the teller’s delivery, and the moment will release her to throw her head back, mouth wide open with a joyous roar, then pitch forward and cover her face with her hands and shake, tears forming, rolling, and dropping to the unseen floor.
The artist is surely local, probably a regular like me, maybe even at the next table doing the crossword. I could find him—I’m sure it’s a him—with the least bit of effort. The owner here is no friend to me, but we call each other by first names, and he would doubtless point out the man on a busy Thursday evening, no hesitation. I could ask the artist about his work, a question about brush strokes, about oils versus acrylics, about subjects impatient with the process, and “Who is she?” would blend in like the shadow of her hair over her forehead. It would be a short trip from his answer to the internet to a well-disguised “chance” encounter.
She is within reach, but I can’t get up from my seat, say, “Hey, Richard, tell me about that portrait artist.” I am frozen with fear that after my many machinations I would sit across from her some warm summer night, anxious sweat saturating my carefully chosen shirt, room-temperature coffee between us, hopelessly unable to make her laugh.
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