| Where is everyone? I dont know. Does it matter? Kind of. Why? Are you afraid of being alone with me? Right now thats a question that doesn't have a good answer.
jazz
Renzo has half a cigarette remaining as he walks to the front door of
the bar, and plants himself on the edge of the curb to smoke it. He checks his
watch again. Paige
had left him a message earlier, telling him what time Quentin's plane
is
landing and when she thought they might arrive at the bar.
She
had also related that Quentin had specifically said that he was going
to kick Renzo in his crown fucking jewels if he didnt show up and buy
him a drink. Quentin and Paige had
probably been
there for more than an hour, but Renzo has a few more minutes before
his lateness slips from fashionable to marginally rude. "Hello."
A girl materializes next to him on the sidewalk, tall and gracefully
thin. There is a curious rhythm to the stance of her body, with her
right hand placed over her left shoulder, and her left hand crossing
down over the opposite hip. Her skin is a
mellifluous olive, and she has green eyes that shine like unblemished
jade in the glow of the streetlights. "Hi," he says. "How are you this
evening?" she asks. "I'm
doing well." "I'm
glad to hear it". "And you?" "I'm doing very
well. Thank you for asking."
Renzo nods and smiles. The woman in front of him has a peculiar
appropriateness that she shares with her surroundings, and yet
something else that separates her from it, as if she is a crystal
bouncing the light away from her in different and colorful ways. They look at each other for a few moments,
enveloped in what he feels is a comfortable silence.
Her eyes are a quantifiable weight; they define his place
in front of her, like gravity. He breaks the
silence, regretfully, offering her the pack of cigarettes that he finds
in his hand. "Smoke?" he asks. She cocks her head
to one side, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. The motion is as fluid and natural as water
running down a hill. She considers the
pack for a moment, then quickly shakes her head. "Not tonight. But thank you."
He chalks it up to the remaining whiskey in his system, but something
is most definitely affecting his perception; time feels as if it is
accelerating and decelerating in strange and subtle ways.
The
street transforms into an urban soundstage, and the interaction between
he and the woman begins to feel like some sort of metaphysical
improvisation, a deviation from the usual script. "Are you going
inside?" he asks. "Actually I'm
leaving," she says. "Waiting for some
friends?" "No.
Just a cab." "Come here often?"
he asks, laughing. The
question seems both ridiculous and unquestionably apropos, and he half
expects it to be followed by a burst of canned laughter. She smiles. "No.
I was just visiting a friend of mine" "Really? Im on the way in to do the same." Her eyes narrow
slightly. "You must be
Renzo." Her statement has
a sort of oracular inevitability; it doesnt surprise him in the
slightest. "That's me," he
says. She nods. "I have no idea
who you are," he says.
Her face freezes for just a moment, as if time has somehow stopped, her
features hovering at the edge of some strange and mysterious secret. And
then the spell is broken, and she laughs, a series of soft and
melodious tones that wash over him like moonlit waves at low tide. "Right. I'm sorry. Quentin is a friend of mine as well.
My name is Jazz." He holds out his
hand. "Like the music?" "Like the flower. As in Jasmine". She takes
his hand in both of hers; they are soft and strong, with the tendons
taut just beneath her skins surface.
"But I spell it like the music." "It's nice to meet
you," he says. "And you as well. I've heard a lot about you." He laughs. "Looks like Ive
got some explaining to do." "Not to worry. Quentin left out all of the good parts." She puts her hands into the pockets of her
jacket and leans a little closer to him. "I
hear you're quite an artist. I'm looking
forward to seeing some of your work." He gives her a
questioning look; he has found that web design rarely piques an
artistic interest. "It's really not
all that interesting," he says. She smiles. "No?
Quentin says you're a very talented painter."
He had assumed she was talking about his web work, and the fact that
she means otherwise is an unexpected surprise. But
a temporary swell of pride is followed by the inevitable deflation,
with the resulting hollowness defining the shape of a creative void
more than three years in the making. "He's being
uncharacteristically generous." Renzo
finds he can't look into her eyes any longer. He
turns and flicks the remainder of his cigarette on the street behind
them. "I dont know if Id really call
myself a painter or an artist
these days." She leans forward
ever so slightly, taking her finger and touching him lightly on the
chest. " But you're the only
one who can, Renzo." His eyes find hers
once again. Her face holds the strangest
expression, a strange amalgam of benevolence and anger defined in the
creases of her brow. And then it is gone,
replaced with a knowing smile, and she reaches up and kisses him on the
cheek. "It was a pleasure
to meet you, Renzo. Will I see you on
Saturday night?" "Saturday night?"
he asks. "I'm sure you'll
hear about it," she says. "Goodbye."
A yellow cab pulls up to the curb beside them, and Jazz opens the door
and eases herself into the back seat. They look at one another
through
the window for a few moments, and then she turns and speaks to the
driver. The cab starts moving toward a stop light at the corner,
and
Renzo feels a peculiar regret as it turns and disappears into the glow
of |
