The Bond

CHAPTER ONE-THE ENCOUNTER

LILY

My eyes scan over the rows of heads and rests on the man sitting alone at the corner of the room. It had rained earlier so the floor-to-ceiling windows still glisten with the drops of water and the cool air outside is more than just something you can feel. I would give anything to grab an easel and some paint right now.

I imagine painting the man against the backdrop of headlights and street lights and slippery streets that can be seen just outside the room. I imagine the colors I would use– red for street lights, orange for headlights, a green leaf stuck in a car’s windshield, shiny black for the wet road, a rainbow somewhere in the sky, and the man– what colors would perfectly describe his aura? I’m jolted out of my reverie by the sound of the microwave going off. “Earth to Lily.” Ken snaps his fingers in front of my face in quick succession, effectively irritating me. “Don’t do that again.” I say, half snapping at him and then to avoid the comeback.

I know is soon to follow, I grab a clipboard off the counter and approach the table at the corner. As much as I hate the fact that my shift has now begun, I must force a smile that looks real enough onto my face. “Would you like to order something?” He stops twirling his wine glass and the first thing I notice when he looks up at me are his green eyes. He looks way better than I imagined him to be when I was standing behind the counter. Up close, his features make my hands itch. I hate the fact that I might have to stay up tonight painting a complete stranger I have only seen from afar but never spoken to until now.

“Maybe another of this,” he gestures to the wine glass on the table, “unless you can recommend something better.” I’m skilled in abstract art but is there a way to present the texture of one’s voice with colors? What colors will give a mix of baritone and soft undertones?

“Well, on a night like this–” “By a night like this, you mean?” “A breezy night where most people are holed up at home.” He smirks. “A romanticist, I see.” “I’m an artist. My job is to romanticize everything.” He sits up on his chair and uncrosses his leg, causing me to notice just how tall he is. He must have at least six inches on my five foot five. “Interesting. What’s an artist doing waiting tables?”

“Not all of us can afford to brood over a glass of Chardonnay while sitting pretty in a million-dollar suit.” A rule I’ve adhered strictly to all this while is to never get cheeky with customers but there’s something about this man that makes me speak before thinking. “Almost there. This one cost a little over nine fifty grand.” I laugh despite myself. “I didn’t mean to sound judgmental.” He waves my apology away and picks up his glass of wine. “So tell me, what type of art do you have interest in?” I know I should probably get back behind the counter now but instead, I find myself setting down the clipboard on his table and striking a contemplative pose.

“Anything really. From paintings to abstracts to conceptual art. I draw influences from van Gogh, Rembrandt, Picasso, Vermeer and Monet. Jenny Holzer, more recently. da Vinci too.” “Of course, doesn’t everyone just love good ol’ Mona Lisa?” “Sarcasm looks good on you.” I say flatly. “Why Holzer though?” “I like people that push boundaries.” “Did you suggest this dim lighting then? To push boundaries?”

I have on many occasions thought that the intimate ambience the owners of this restaurant were going for with this lighting was lost on everybody. For one, it made the eating experience unpleasant when customers had to squint at their already microscopic portions.

“Sorry to disappoint you but I didn’t.” “I think I could use a glass of that wine you recommended.” He downs the last of his wine and sets the empty glass gently on the table. Suddenly I’m curious as to why he’s sitting here alone drinking and engaging a waitress in mindless talk when he could be out there charming the pants off some lady. He certainly has the looks and money to pull any girl or guy he wants. “I didn’t get the chance to recommend any wine yet.” “Is that why you’re staring at me like I have horns springing out of my head?” “I’m just trying to figure out why a man like you is sitting here alone, looking lost and dissatisfied.” An expression of panic passes over his face so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it. “A man like me?”

“Rich, young and good looking.” His lips tip upwards in a crooked smile. “So you do find me attractive.” I grab the clipboard off the table. “I’d better get that wine.”I can feel his eyes on me as I walk back to the counter and I wonder what he’s thinking. From the little conversation I’ve had with him, he strikes me as someone very mysterious. He’s nothing like the usual rich brats we have to deal with every other day here. I find myself wondering what his deal is even though I know I should not be curious about him at all. There’s something about him that makes me want to probe deeper. “Anyone you know?” Ken asks as I approach the counter. He’s obviously fishing for gossip and I know better than to indulge him.

“He wants wine.” I say simply and walk past him. When I return to his table, he’s staring outside at the passing cars. “Here you go.” I set down a bottle and a glass on the table. “Barolo wine. With Italian origins, it has been proclaimed the king of wines and the wine of kings.” I attempt to open the bottle but he stops me. “Do you always sound like this? Like a history textbook?” “Not all the time. I can be other things too. You might not know this but being a waitress is similar to being an actor. You have to embody various roles and be different people depending on what kind of customers you get.” “Sounds tough. Would you say you’re only truly yourself when you paint then?” I cannot hide my amusement at his question.

“Well, if you put it like that.” For a moment, we stew in silence as if considering each other but it’s far from awkward. I wonder what it is about him that makes me so comfortable. “Can I see any of your work?” “There are some pictures on my phone. Unfortunately, we have to turn in our phones before every shift.” Another moment of silence passes before reality hits and I glance quickly at the counter. “I’ve been away for too long. Ken must be struggling on his own.” “Oh, Ken seems like he’s doing just fine.”

“I’ll pour the wine now.” I pick up the bottle and open it with the mastery of one who has been doing this for all of life. He tips the glass towards my direction and I pour a little amount. “That’s too little.” “If you’re planning to get drunk, yes. If not, it’s just the right amount.” “Do all artists try to tell people what to do?” He brings the glass to his nose and inhales before taking a sip. “Not really. I’m just gifted at pissing people off.” I replace the stopper on the bottle and smile widely. “Don’t you think that’s a gift you should hide?” I shrug. “I don’t think so. After all, as Picasso put it, the meaning of life is to find your gift.” He wrinkles his nose in amusement. “And that’s exactly why I don’t like Picasso. He had too many opinions on too many things.” I laugh shortly. “I’ll take it that you’re pulling my legs.” As I walk away, I wonder what it is about this man that intrigues me so much.