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 Sure, make it one-ish, after the noon-hour rush, she says with
a hint of, Is it enthusiasm?
His thumb and forefinger meet in the rabbit-eared O of an okay
sign and he is outbound, commuter mug of skinny latte in hand,
sure that he s a Nick for the New Millennium and that he s found
his Nora.
* * *
Next day, he s at Espresso d, prompt as an electric bill. CaraJo
assures him they re on for lunch. She s got the edge of excitement
in her voice and Nelse feels at that moment he s the luckiest guy
ever born.
Hours later, he s back in the passion-stirring aromas of the store
and not seeing CaraJo, he inquires of another woman who cleans
tables, an angular woman with a crew cut he finds attractive for
some reason lost on him:  CaraJo around?
 Sure, wait a minute. Oh, there she is 
CaraJo emerges, really emerges, looking for all the world like a
caterpillar seconds post-cocoon. She s got on a billowy, orange-
white striped clown suit that s hidden somewhere the irresistible
bod that was CaraJo from her ankles to the ruffled collar about her
neck. Nelse gapes in disbelief.
 Recognize me? she says, smiling with these outsized red lips
on a white face with a red rubber ball of a nose stuck in the middle
of it. Nelse is all the more stunned that this oddest person in the
room is actually speaking to him. He wants to leave right now,
chalk it up as a bad dream, come back tomorrow. Did he have the
wrong day?
And worst of all she asks this in a loud voice, chewing gum the
whole time. Nelse stands there like the lamest of lame dates holding
a picnic basket from which, they re sharing lunch? He might as well
break bread with a yak for all the companionship potential he sees
here.
 Yeah, your nose gave you away, he says, trying to act
nonchalant about CaraJo s shocking sartorial feat.
 If you re wondering, what the? it s Friday afternoon. I take
off early for my public service project at St. John s. Visit kids in the
cancer ward. They re in love with me. She says this, jaws flapping
away with a real wad of gum. Nelse would bet anything she s lying
about the kids with cancer, but would she go and rent a costume
just to make him out as a fool? He doesn t really know and
suggests they sit outside at one of the umbrellaed tables.
 That s commendable, he says.  Just commendable.
 I try.
He wants to see CaraJo the way she used to be. He decides if
he s going to take pictures, she d look better without that
ridiculous red nose on her face.  Wanna do me a favor? he asks.
 What s that?
 Give that nose a rest while we eat. I wanna see the real you,
not some bank-robber disguise.
 Forget it. This is good enough for my kids, it s good enough
for you.
The next few minutes at the table are awkward. He has to open
the wicker picnic basket that now seems a bit out of place with
CaraJo the Clown, who looks more like she wants to eat something
from McDonald s, not the herbed pasta salad that he s putting out
on faux china plates.
 You went to so much trouble, CaraJo says, following with a
run of fast chews on her wad of gum like she s about to pull its
salivaed pinkness from her mouth and stick it on the plate, which
she does. He s almost lost his appetite as he opens and hands her an
Evian, an inverted plastic cup hanging on the bottle neck.
Then his PalmPilot starts beeping in his shirt pocket, which he
extracts to read ASK CARAJO IF SHE WANTS TO GO TO ART
MUSEUM SUNDAY AFTERNOON, a reminder he could do
without if she s taken to wearing this sexless habit of parachute
clothes. He presses the Clear button.
But it s really that red bulbous nose that destroys all the beauty
he saw in CaraJo. That Rudolph bulb mocks his attraction to her.
He must focus on getting food on the table. She slivers off some of
the resilient Brie, attaching it to a cracker.  You did too much. I
feel like I m in Masterpiece Theatre, china plates and all.
Nelse wants to say,  Why did I bother? and instead keeps
mum, slathering the pinkish salmon pâté which CaraJo ignores [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]

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