Crash Into Me(3)

"Nina, what are you doing? I saw at least three patrons with empty glasses as I crossed the room. Chop, chop!" Sheila barked in my ear, tearing me out of my fantasy.

My boss marched away, and I watched as Tristan and his women moved on to another painting. Everything was as it should be with everyone in their correct place. Him with a group of gorgeous women and me with my tray of cocktail weenies. A few minutes later, I watched him leave, never even knowing his last name or what his voice sounded like.

As the show wound down and the sated art lovers made their way to other fashionable locations in SoHo, I began my post-show duties. Sheila had a look of pure happiness on her gaunt face as she said goodbye to her other help for the night, which could mean that she was high or pleased with how the show had gone. As she was coming my way, I'd know in a minute which it was.

Sheila was a touchy-feely person, so even before she got to me her hand was reaching out for my arm. Raking her long, bony fingers down my shirt sleeve, she purred, "Nina, except for that brief slip with the champagne, I think the show went off wonderfully." Turning to lock the gallery's front door, she waved her hand around the room. "You can leave a lot of this mess for tomorrow, or if you prefer to clean up tonight, you can have Sunday off. Your choice. I know you'll get it done. You're dependable."

She didn't bother to wait for my response before she grabbed her black cashmere wrap and traipsed out the back door. I was nothing if not reliable, so she didn't have to worry about whether I'd clean or not. By the time she returned on Monday, her gallery would be spotless.

As I swept up the last cocktail napkin and put the last champagne glass in the holder for the caterer, I thought about how my boss saw me. Dependable. God, that was an awful way to be seen! Garbage bags were dependable. Wrenches were considered dependable. A good car was dependable.




The only thing worse would be if she'd called me sturdy.

With that cheery thought in mind, I turned off the lights, tied up the garbage bag that shared my dependable nature, and headed toward the back door to drop it off and go home for the night. One last job and I was Brooklyn bound.

I threw the trash in the Dumpster behind the building and locked the gallery's back door. Lost in thought, I heard someone behind me say, "Nice show, huh?"

The sound of his deep voice nearly made me jump out of my skin, and I spun around to see him. The man from earlier. Tristan. He stood leaning against a black sports car, arms folded across his chest, still dressed in that grey suit and looking even more incredible than when I'd first seen him. As I stared at him, drinking in how gorgeous he looked, my brain switched from pure fear back to normal to ask the obvious question.

Why is he here?

"Yeah, it was great. The artist is quite talented," I lied.

"It was shit and you know it. Nice outfit, though."

Instantly, I was once again acutely aware of how silly I looked in my waitress getup. His remark stung, and I snapped back, "It's called working. Now unless I can help you with something, I have to go. Have a good night."

I checked the lock on the gallery door and turned to walk away. I hadn't made it two steps before he quietly said, "I didn't mean anything bad by that. You look nice."

Was that sincerity in his voice? I didn't know. I just knew I didn't want to feel embarrassed by my work anymore that night.

Turning around, I tried to get a feel for this guy, but he just stood there staring at me like I was the most important person in the world at that moment. "Thanks."

"What do you say we go for a ride?"