Of course, she was an artist.
Of course, she was a writer too.
Kyp could tell that by the way she pirouetted around the office pulling files from cabinets and putting them in bins on desks, then circling back around to the coffee cup she’d set on Kyp’s desk with a breathy, is this okay?
His desk.
S-sure…sure it was okay.
There was an artistry about her
The way she moved. The skinny jeans she wore. The Chuck Taylors. An over-sized cardigan that hung loose on her slight frame. Those big round glasses. That nose ring. The way she bunched her hair on top of her head in a sloppy mound with a single clip.
Clarice.
Clarice Laine.
An artist’s name. Poetry and photography online; stuff that Kyp read and viewed each and every single time, she danced away to fetch more files, leaving that coffee cup lonely and stained with her light, red lipstick.
And it wasn’t great poetry.
And the photography was a bit pedantic.
City scenes that Clarice had intentionally made black and white with her phone.
But Kyp was no critic.
He’d worked in this medical library for fifteen years.
And Clarice was…
Kyp looked her up again online.
Clarice was…
…twenty-seven. Christ, that’s twenty-one years younger than me, Kyp thought. Born in 1996. Kyp broke up with his girlfriend of two years in 1996. Kyp and his friends cruised the city that summer, going from bar to bar, meeting women. Chasing women from bar to bar. Going to clubs. Going to strip bars.
Kyp could remember whole days from the year 1996.
Whole weekends.
And Clarice was just coming into the world then!
This temp who wrote poetry and took photographs.
If he could just talk to her.
If he could just…
…but…ugh…those twenty-one years.
But what did age matter when you were an adult? And Clarice was approaching thirty, kind of. Too old to be a temp…maybe. And Kyp wasn’t that out of touch. He listened to interesting podcasts. He still made year-end best of lists.
He knew all the young musicians, and didn’t hate them.
He still liked to find new bands out there online, and tell people about said group on the social medias. Kyp had Facebook. He had Instagram. He posted all kinds of cool memes and GIFs on Twitter.
“More files, sorry,” Clarice said to him, smiling, rolling her eyes empathetically. Pirouetting away again.
Kyp wanted to say something interesting. Something witty. Maybe bare his soul. All week he’d wanted to. Clarice’s last week. Clarice’s only week as a temp here. Nothing but awkward smiles. Awkward glances. No real conversation at all. It could be now or never.
Instead…
“Okay, sure,” was all he said in response.
Kyp went to his ramen joint for lunch. He had visions of Clarice walking in and coming to sit with him. All week he’d hoped she’d find this place. He was going broke on ramen. His blood pressure had to be through the roof.
Still…if she’d just come in.
They could talk about books. Or movies. He’d just seen this strange one with Emma Stone. Paintings. Kyp had been an art major in college once, long ago.
He graduated in 1997.
When Clarice was one.
But Clarice never found the ramen joint.
Being older just meant more experience, Kyp thought, sitting back at his desk, watching Clarice move around the room pulling those medical library files. When he and Johanna had been married, Kyp had a healthy bank account. And guess what? He did things. Like plays and symphonies. He went places.
He traveled.
That’s right, Clarice, Kyp thought. I’ve been to London. I’ve been to Madrid. I walked in Miller’s shoes in his blessed Paris. I’ve seen Tokyo, Amsterdam and Vienna too. I’ve stood before Guernica. I’ve stood before The Kiss.
Kyp imagined walking the Louvre with Clarice, aching to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa with all of those other tourists.
I’m a wealth of knowledge and experience, Kyp said to himself.
“More files, sorry,” Clarice said, smiling, rolling her eyes.
“Okay, sure,” Kyp said, slowly.
But she was already dancing away from him again.
For the rest of the afternoon, they passed each other like that. Like smiling strangers. Only Kyp played out their whole new lives in his head. Clarice would stay and work permanently at the medical library. A desk across the room from him, Awkward smiles becoming friendly ones. Stilted phrases becoming long and sprawling conversations about everything. An undercurrent of passion and excitement building between the two of them. A combined future coming into view.
It has been so long since Kyp had felt that.
Passion.
For anyone.
For anything.
Oh, how he’d take Clarice to that Ramen joint. Then the Indian place he loved. Holding hands and stopping for small kisses. They’d go to the art museums. They’d stand before van Gogh’s and Picasso’s together. Clarice would call Picasso a misogynist. Kyp would nod in agreement. They’d see art films. Find books for each other in bookstores. Maybe Kyp would help Clarice with a line in one of her poems. Help her frame a photo.
They’d travel.
Together.
And the love they would make.
It would be unreal.
It would be like…
“Well, goodnight,” Clarice said. “See you around.”
She already had her coat.
Her hat.
That tattered knapsack with all of those political buttons on it.
She was already walking toward the glass exit doors.
They’re love would be magical, Kyp thought, fleetingly.
“Yeah,” he said. “See you around, too.”
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