25-04-2019, 06:01 PM
She nodded her understanding. I nodded back to let her know that this part of the discussion was just on hold for now. I had something else to tell her.
"About that first night, I called you." I said, looking down. "There was something..."
Helen patted my hand now.
"Suzy-Q explained about Propappou's jacket in that last kiss. I know you didn't mean anything by it. And you've forgiven me for so much fucking shit, how can I not?"
We hugged over that. This time, I saw Troy & Julie looking, then pretend they weren't and start to head into the living room.
We picked up our coffees and followed them.
"Well," Helen said, entering the room. "Equalses and Baileys. It looks like I'm suddenly free until tonight, and we already did the 'wreck up Seattle' thing yesterday. I heard Denise wants to stop by, I'd like to meet her, too. Anyone wanna do anything until then?"
* * *
At a Seattle area weekly publication, at the desk of one of the photographers, something was happening. He'd been covering the crowds outside the phone store when La Contessa and her own group arrived. There'd been something in his own photos that he hadn't noticed; or rather, it was a thing in his own photos that he hadn't thought at all unusual until he noticed it missing from the others' photos of their day with La Contessa.
"The other women." He thought. "The ones with the shoes. The taller one had red, strappy heels on." He compared them with the feet waiting in the back of La Contessa's limo in front of the club the night before. Different shoes, but two other women with her again. "They'd just been shopping all day, so of course they'd change shoes and outfits for clubbing; still in all likelihood, the same two who'd been with La Contessa all afternoon.
He looked at the red heels again. They were sticking in his memory for a reason. After a few moments' thought, he got up and walked over to his co-worker's desk.
"Hey," He signed to the writer. "The art show in Spokane we covered a couple months ago; you have that stuff handy?" The writer nodded back that he did and handed him a binder. The photographer signed his thanks and returned to his own photos.
With the memory of "Spokane," it didn't take him long to remember exactly where he'd seen those red, strappy heels: on feet at the bottom of legs that disappeared into a form-fitting knee-length red dress that surrounded an amazing hourglass figure. And atop that figure, a bright, expressive face, surrounded by a mane of hair that couldn't decide if it was dishwater or buttery blonde.
He looked at the pictures he'd taken of the exhibit, and why he'd remembered those heels fell into place: Because the beauty of both the artist and her work had been memorable. He'd admired her expressions of the world around her. Everything was beautiful in her eyes, all the world. And the artist gave that beautiful vision back to the world on her canvasses.
The shoes stood out to him, because the artist herself had stood out to him. Oh, a sexy woman, absolutely; great ass, amazing tits, all that. But that wasn't what made him remember the entire woman based on the shoes she'd worn to an art showing two months ago. It had been that THE ARTIST had been such a work of art herself. As much a part of her showing as anything on the walls. Not just a pretty woman, but a person so completely sincere and honest with both her facial expressions and her brushstrokes that you could see it in Julie Equals' eyes; that was the name of the artist, he remembered now. You could see in her eyes, the beautiful place from which her vision stemmed. She'd moved him as much as her paintings had. He couldn't hear her voice, but he imagined that it was as beautiful as everything else about Mrs. Equals; of course, a woman like her would be married, and her works both were. She'd been a radiant woman, whom people gravitated toward, and the photos showed it.
He looked at the artist's biography and read the first sentence.
"Julie Equals and her husband, Troy, consider themselves fortunate to have been born best friends and next-door neighbors, a week apart, in Anchorage, Alaska. They reside in Federal Way, Washington, where Mr. Equals is..."
Yeah, that's how he remembered she was married; how do you not lead with a love story like that? "Anchorage, Alaska" floated through his head for a moment. It looked for something else to connect with in yesterday's photos.
He went to his computer and brought up the Wikipedia page for Contessa Helena de San Finzione, looking for her place of birth.
* * *
"About that first night, I called you." I said, looking down. "There was something..."
Helen patted my hand now.
"Suzy-Q explained about Propappou's jacket in that last kiss. I know you didn't mean anything by it. And you've forgiven me for so much fucking shit, how can I not?"
We hugged over that. This time, I saw Troy & Julie looking, then pretend they weren't and start to head into the living room.
We picked up our coffees and followed them.
"Well," Helen said, entering the room. "Equalses and Baileys. It looks like I'm suddenly free until tonight, and we already did the 'wreck up Seattle' thing yesterday. I heard Denise wants to stop by, I'd like to meet her, too. Anyone wanna do anything until then?"
* * *
At a Seattle area weekly publication, at the desk of one of the photographers, something was happening. He'd been covering the crowds outside the phone store when La Contessa and her own group arrived. There'd been something in his own photos that he hadn't noticed; or rather, it was a thing in his own photos that he hadn't thought at all unusual until he noticed it missing from the others' photos of their day with La Contessa.
"The other women." He thought. "The ones with the shoes. The taller one had red, strappy heels on." He compared them with the feet waiting in the back of La Contessa's limo in front of the club the night before. Different shoes, but two other women with her again. "They'd just been shopping all day, so of course they'd change shoes and outfits for clubbing; still in all likelihood, the same two who'd been with La Contessa all afternoon.
He looked at the red heels again. They were sticking in his memory for a reason. After a few moments' thought, he got up and walked over to his co-worker's desk.
"Hey," He signed to the writer. "The art show in Spokane we covered a couple months ago; you have that stuff handy?" The writer nodded back that he did and handed him a binder. The photographer signed his thanks and returned to his own photos.
With the memory of "Spokane," it didn't take him long to remember exactly where he'd seen those red, strappy heels: on feet at the bottom of legs that disappeared into a form-fitting knee-length red dress that surrounded an amazing hourglass figure. And atop that figure, a bright, expressive face, surrounded by a mane of hair that couldn't decide if it was dishwater or buttery blonde.
He looked at the pictures he'd taken of the exhibit, and why he'd remembered those heels fell into place: Because the beauty of both the artist and her work had been memorable. He'd admired her expressions of the world around her. Everything was beautiful in her eyes, all the world. And the artist gave that beautiful vision back to the world on her canvasses.
The shoes stood out to him, because the artist herself had stood out to him. Oh, a sexy woman, absolutely; great ass, amazing tits, all that. But that wasn't what made him remember the entire woman based on the shoes she'd worn to an art showing two months ago. It had been that THE ARTIST had been such a work of art herself. As much a part of her showing as anything on the walls. Not just a pretty woman, but a person so completely sincere and honest with both her facial expressions and her brushstrokes that you could see it in Julie Equals' eyes; that was the name of the artist, he remembered now. You could see in her eyes, the beautiful place from which her vision stemmed. She'd moved him as much as her paintings had. He couldn't hear her voice, but he imagined that it was as beautiful as everything else about Mrs. Equals; of course, a woman like her would be married, and her works both were. She'd been a radiant woman, whom people gravitated toward, and the photos showed it.
He looked at the artist's biography and read the first sentence.
"Julie Equals and her husband, Troy, consider themselves fortunate to have been born best friends and next-door neighbors, a week apart, in Anchorage, Alaska. They reside in Federal Way, Washington, where Mr. Equals is..."
Yeah, that's how he remembered she was married; how do you not lead with a love story like that? "Anchorage, Alaska" floated through his head for a moment. It looked for something else to connect with in yesterday's photos.
He went to his computer and brought up the Wikipedia page for Contessa Helena de San Finzione, looking for her place of birth.
* * *
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