An Invitation

"I like the things you write," she said. Statements like that always make me uncomfortable.

"Sometimes there is almost a poetry to it."

I was starting to REALLY like this girl. She was young, an emotional type.

I looked for a server. I thought I might have a glass of wine.

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"Who was that girl I saw you with the other day," he asked.

"When?"

"At the cafe. The little hippie girl."

"Oh. . . well, I don't know. Just some girl who hangs out there."

"How old is she?"

"I don't know. Young."

Something about the way he asked these things was beginning to piss me off.

"I think I know her father. He is an architect."

"Yea, that sounds right."

I just wanted him to leave it alone. I wanted to smack the lasciviousness right off his face.

A few days later, I got an envelope in the mail. It smelled of lemongrass and lilacs and lavender. The address was drawn in colored pencils. Inside was a note. Rather, it was more like those fabulous broadsides by William Blake with figures and decorative images lining the margins. There was the usual greetings, something sweet, and an invitation that ended with, "Meet me for lunch."