She went back to the table with fresh lipstick on, and the artist looked up from his lunch. “You look nice with lipstick. It's a good color.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him, and as she started eating again, her phone rang.
“I hate those things,” he commented as she answered it, and she immediately frowned. It was Bix, saying every lewd thing he could think of over her phone.
“You did
“What happened?” She looked worried too.
“It's Bix. You know what a wimp he is.” She glanced over at Bill with a smile, to create a little mischief before she left. “He's gay,” she explained.
“I hate fags,” he said, and burped.
“I thought you might say that.” She turned back to Sydney then. “He threw his back out.”
“I didn't know he had a bad back.” She looked instantly sympathetic, because Paris knew she had a bad back herself, and wore a brace when she worked.
“He's on the floor and can't even move. He needs me to get him to the chiropractor. He says if I don't come back now, he'll call 911.”
“I know just how he feels. I have a herniated disk, and when it acts up, I can't walk for weeks. Do you want us to come too?”
“Don't worry. I can manage him. But I've got to get back.”
“All fags should be shot,” the artist declared, and then burped again.
“I'm so sorry to run,” she apologized to them both, and then shook Bill's hand. “Have a wonderful time while you're here. I enjoyed meeting you very much. And good luck with your work.”
“You mean with my dick?” He laughed out loud, and then coughed.
“Absolutely. Good luck with your dick. ‘Bye, Syd.’ Thanks for lunch.” She waved and ran out the door, fuming all the way back, and when she got to the office, Bix was waiting for her with a grin.
“So where is it?”
“Where is what? I may have to kill someone I'm so mad.”
“My picture of his dick.”
“Don't even talk to me. Ever again. I'm never speaking to you or Sydney. For the rest of my life. The guy was a total nutcase. And for your information, he hates fags, and thinks they should all be shot. But he hates blacks and Native Americans too.”
“I love this guy. What did he look like?”
“A zombie. He lives on a ranch with no electricity or plumbing.”
“No wonder he makes ten-foot sculptures of his dick. The poor bastard has nothing else to do.”
“Don't talk to me. Just don't talk to me. Ever again. And I am never, ever, never for the rest of my whole goddamned life going on a blind date again.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bix said, leaning back in his chair, laughing at her. “I said that too. And you know what? I did. And so will you.”
“Fuck you,” she said, marched into her office, and slammed the door so loudly the bookkeeper came out of her cubbyhole and looked around with a frightened expression.
“Is Paris all right?”
“She's fine,” he said, still laughing. “She just had a blind date.”
“It didn't work out?” she asked, looking sympathetic, and Bix grinned widely and shook his head.
“I think not, Mrs. Simpson. I think not. And that is the story of blind dates.”
They were relaxing quietly in Paris's garden, talking about work, and life, and Wim's trip to Europe. He had left with friends the day before, when Meg turned to her mother cautiously, and seemed to be weighing something. And Paris saw it.
“What are you chewing on?” Paris asked her. “What's up?”
“I wanted to ask you something, but I wasn't sure how.”
“Uh-oh. Sounds important. Someone new in your life?”
