All I Ever Wanted

“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.

Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama … the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.

“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.

“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.

“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”

“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.

“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”

“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”

My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.

I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”

“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him … after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.

“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.

“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.