Skipping Conversations

A date is like a song.

The ‘hello-s’ and the ‘how are you-s’ are the intro. Relating our respective life stories are the verses. Sussing out one another’s intentions are the pre-chorus and the chorus.

The solitary moment of reflection you get – usually when you or the date’s gone to the bathroom – is the bridge, when you start to imagine life with this person.

I like to think I’m a good judge of character. I can often tell, within the span of a song, whether I want to pursue a romantic opportunity.

Lately though, I’ve been skipping forward to the outdo.

I opened the door to Ben, thirty-one, outdoorsy and who loves to hang off the side of mountains, according to pictures on his profile. He poked around the apartment, tilting his head to decipher my abstract art and sniffing at the aroma of bolognese sauce.

“Intriguing of you to invite me to your home,” Ben said. “I thought women prefer to meet out in public. Neutral territory.”

“Eh,” I shrugged. “I prefer getting to know people without distractions. Wine?”

Meaty hands sloshed the fine red wine and it teetered to the lip of the glass, almost splashing onto Ben’s creased white shirt. He pinched cheese and crackers off the board as I placed a vinyl of my favourite instrumental soundtrack, The Ugly Truth.

“So, you like to run. That’s cool. Have you always been a runner?”

“I started a few years ago,” I returned to the stove and dipped a spoon into the bubbling pot. “First on the treadmill, then outside. I got bored of the gym walls.”

“Oh yeah, I like the gym but outside is nice too.” Biceps bulged as Ben reached for another hunk of cheddar.

“I saw on your profile you rock climb. I’ve always thought it’d be fun to do, but I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

“Ha, ha. Me either.”

What? I frowned into the sauce, resisting the impulse to turn my scrunched face to this snorting meathead. The needle slips onto the song Bad Date. Images flashed of him holding onto a mountain face by his fingertips and when I pivoted, he stared at me with a lopsided, thoughtless smile.

All brawn, no brain. God. This would never work. Why did I bother?

“Right,” I switched off the hotplate and sashayed to the record player as Ben plopped onto a seat at the table, fingers swooping for another cracker like a seagull nosediving for a chip. I lifted the needle to an inner groove and the sound scrambled to the outro.

I blinked and found Ben lounging in the chair while patting his stomach, scooping the last of the ice cream onto his finger. The pressure of a two-course meal weighed on my own stomach. Dishes stained with red sauce were stacked in the sink and the bottle of red wine was empty.

“Well, that went fast. Didn’t it?” Ben grinned as he waddled to the open door. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Gone in the blink of an eye.” Thank goodness. “I’ll call you.”

“Can’t wait,” the meathead winked as I put the door between us.

“In your dreams,” I kicked off my heels and fell onto the couch with my phone. The dating app loaded and I unmatched Ben’s profile, stepping on his fingers before he could cling too hard to the mountain of my life.

James: This is a masterpiece. Love the Manet, but I’m more of a Monet myself…

James, thirty-two, Sydney-born and new to town popped up on my screen. I’d thrown him a bone, learning he’d moved across the world to become curator of a local art gallery. He liked and replied to a photo of me at a Manet exhibition in New York.

Me: Let me guess, I’m a work of art?

James: Woah, and a mind-reader.

Smiling through the screen was a gangly, introverted sort with a bird’s nest for hair. Not my usual type, but I had enough sauce left over to recycle it for another meal.

Do you have a palette for home cooking?

Heart of Stone by Cher sat in the record player, the needle poised above the vinyl. My phone vibrated on the counter, two minutes before I was expecting James.

“Callie,” I answered while grinning. “How’s my favourite detective?”

“Busy. This heist is driving us mad.”

The television, on silent since I picked up the phone, played rolling coverage of an art theft from a small gallery in Paris. Footage of the exterior of the gallery was accompanied by a headline along the bottom of the screen, reading: Painting stolen days after artist’s sudden death.

“Are there any updates?” The screen shifted into footage of the gallery a day before the heist, when thousands of visitors flocked to see the artist’s last exhibition. The pièce de résistance, Luca Gorigian’s magnum opus titled Astray, was crowded with onlookers who tried to decipher the abstract work. “You have to tell me. It’s got me up at night.”

“You can’t say anything, okay? This is the last tidbit I give you, then we’re even. Debt paid for the last time box of Tim Tams you sent.”

“I swear.”

“One of the thieves had size thirteen feet.”

“Goodness,” I glanced at my own tiny, heeled feet. “That’s huge.”

“I know, and they were wearing pink flip flops.”

“How in the world did you figure that out?” A buzz at the door announced James’ arrival.

“It’s so weird. There’s a gap in the CCTV. One minute everything’s empty, the floor’s clean and all. Cut to black and five minutes later when it’s back on, the painting’s gone and there’s a chunk of pink flip flop next to the display.”

“So, so weird. Hey, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for satiating me.”

“Hot date?”

“With an art curator, actually.”

“Maybe he knows where it’s gone. Let me know how it goes.”

“Au revoir,” I chuckle and hang up, welcoming James who had tidied up the mop atop his head and cradled an umbrella.

“Come in, come in.” I ushered and his nose twitched at the scent of baking chicken parmigiana.

“A lot of people I encounter on the apps say they love art,” James said as he marveled at a funky, sort of replica of the Venus de Milo next to my door. “You mean it, huh?”

“Take a look around.” I set out my trademark entrée platter and set the needle to SONG as James stared open-mouthed at the prints and sculptures. He paused in front of the often-scrutinised abstract piece.

“Oh a Gorigian. What a tragic end. But his family must be rolling in the riches. It’s not the real thing, is it?”

“Of course not,” I laughed. “I’d steal it if I could.”

“You heard about the heist?” James’ eyes lit up and bulged. “Crazy, huh? I was in Paris and saw it a day before it was stolen.”

“I love Paris. Have you been there before?”

“That’s actually where I moved from.”

From Paris to a small suburb in Melbourne? I thought. How unusual.

Steam spiraled from the plates of chicken parmigiana as I gestured for James to sit.

“How long were you in Paris?” I asked while slicing.

“Five years. Worked with some of the greats, alive and dead.”

“I know Melbourne is one of the most artsy cities here,” I raised a brow. “But we can’t compare to Paris. Why would you even think about coming here?”

“Oh, just some circumstances. I had to leave quickly, some personal issues.”

“I’m sorry.” I metaphorically and physically kicked myself. “I hope everything’s okay. Did you at least leave on a high? Being one of the last to see a painting before it was stolen is cool, even if you’re one of what, thousands?”

“I was an assistant curator for it so yeah, pretty surreal.” James, mid-shovelling food, said and breadcrumbs leapt from his mouth. The vinyl transitioned to If I Could Turn Back Time as I made to speak, to distract James from spraying me with food.

If I could turn back time…

“I–”

“I thought about Rome or London but I was getting tired of Europe,” James said a hunk of chicken slipped off the fork and bounced on the plate, painting his shirt with sauce. “Yeah the money’s not great here but it’s a stepping stone.” Wine dribbled from his lips and a drop landed near my hand. “I’ve got my eyes set on a more prestigious gallery. I heard the curator’s retiring soon.”

If I could find a way…

“Right,” I said while watching melted cheese land beneath my Gorigian print. I wiped my mouth, stood and walked to the record player. Another piece of chicken made its way beside my fork as I lifted the needle, replaced it and blinked. My plate was empty and pushed to the side, stomach full and apple crumble projected from James’ still yapping mouth.

“…size thirteen is a struggle, it really is. Can’t even find flip flops.”

Size thirteen, flip flops, Callie’s voice echoed in my head while my hand hovered above the needle. I yanked it back to the beginning of the song but as I knew would happen, my plate remained empty, my stomach full and the table wore most of the apple crumble.

I can’t ask him to repeat, I thought while images of flip flops, the Gorigian and Paris iconography swirled in my mind. He’ll know I’m suspicious. There’s no way, right? He was talking about himself, right? He didn’t say ‘I’ or ‘me’, but who else would he be talking about?

My view of his feet was obscured by the tablecloth. I lingered beside the record player, wondering if I could get away with a spontaneous knock of my fork onto the ground. I ambled to the kitchen and in the moment my back turned James stood, grabbed his umbrella and waited by the door. The umbrella was loose around his legs and crumbs littered his collar.

“This was fun.”

“What, going already?” How can I get him to stay?

“Yeah, I have an early morning remember?”

No, I don’t because your impression of a pig made me want to jump out of the sty.

“Right, can I uh…” I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and tried to force my cheeks to flush. “Can I see you again?”

“Sure,” James’ neck went bright red as he opened the door.

“Let me walk you out.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll call you.”

“I’d love to have you back at mine—” I said to the slammed door.

Me: I’m outside – will wait for you.

James: I’m already at the table. See you in a second!

“Shoot,” I flexed a fist as I walked into the restaurant and found James seated in the middle of the dining area. A long tablecloth and ankles tucked underneath the chair hid his feet. I hovered at my own seat, brows wiggling at my expectation he’d pull out the chair for me like a gentleman, but I was a slighted lady and plopped myself down.

“Good to see you,” he grinned. “Your place is lovely, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t this nice?”

“Sure, who needs the comfort of home.” I said while smoothing my skirt, flicking the tablecloth but spying my own damn feet.

“Water?” A waiter floated beside the table, jug poised to fill our empty glasses.

“You can leave it, thank you.” You can avoid standing to greet me, but not the bathroom. I filled his glass and didn’t let cup go dry. “How was your first week at the new job?”

“Good, good. It’s like I’m new to class and transferred from another school. Everyone’s asking questions, wanting to be my friend, especially when I mention the Gorigian business.”

“Really?” I said as I spread a napkin across my lap. The napkin ring slipped from my grip and rolled onto the floor next to James’ chair. “Oops, could you get that for me?”

“I think you dropped this, Miss.” The diner behind James picked up the ring and I sighed.

“Thanks mate,” James said midway through a slice of bread, crusty flakes snowing from his mouth. I refilled his water again, lifted my right leg and touched my ankle.

“Oh, excuse me, I think there’s something wrong with my—”

“Would you like something to drink?” The waiter returned with a notepad.

“Uh, a coke.” I straightened but kept my ankle hovering, ready to lift the tablecloth and stick my head under.

“Me too. Can I get a slice of lemon in mine?”

“Certainly,” the waiter walked off. I reached for the tablecloth when another waited halted by the table.

“Have you been served already?”

“Just drinks. I couldn’t do with another. This one’s keeping me topped up so much, I’m going to burst.” James winked. “Joking, I couldn’t bear to miss a moment of this.”

“I’ll bring menus.”

Here we go. Just duck your head under and be done with it.

“Hey, excuse me.” A patron paused at my side and smiled. “Did we go to school together? Graduating class of two thousand?”

“I don’t think so,” I shrugged while making a point to reach and touch my ankle. “I was a few years later.”

“Oh sorry, have a nice night!”

“Here are your menus. Can I take your drink order?”

“Here are your drinks. Oh, are you here to take their orders?” Two waiters slapped one another on the backs, pointing and chuckling at the menus and drinks. James joined in and when I went to peek underneath the tablecloth, a third waiter appeared.

“These two are a hoot, aren’t they?” The trio laughed and dispersed.

This is ridiculous. I need a new plan.

I slipped off my heel and shuffled my bare foot around until it touched James’ hard leather shoe. He didn’t notice and I strained my leg, trying to trace the outline of his foot and determine the length.

“It’s a small gallery, smaller than I’m used to.”

“Uh huh.”

“They way they do things is kind of weird, but I’ll get used to it.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I, um. Are you okay?” James said as my toes crept around to the back of his foot.

I froze as James lifted the tablecloth and gaped at my toes curled around the tip of his shoe.

“What the are you doing?”

“Um…”

“Why are you touching my foot? Do you have a fetish?”

“Uh,” my cheeks flushed as nearby patrons turned to us.

Is the truth more embarrassing?

“I wanted to, um…” I stuffed my foot back into my heel.

“You know my feet are my biggest insecurity. If you had a fetish fine, but why bring it out in public?”

“No, no. I don’t have a fetish.”

“Then what is it?” James raised his hands and a second later, his twisted face smoothed as if his mind clicked. “Oh, you think I’m the thief, don’t you? You’re trying to suss me out? What’s next, you’ll want to come home and see if I have pink flip flops?”

“No, James c’mon.” I waved my arms, gesturing for him to lower his voice.

“I opened up to you about my feet, and you choose to embarrass me and insult me.” James slammed his napkin on the table and stood. “I don’t need this.”

“James please, I’m sorry.” I called as he grabbed his umbrella, sitting on the back of his chair, and held it in front of him as he shuffled out of the restaurant. I sunk into my seat and stared at the mess of breadcrumbs across the table.

They must have announced details about the thief, I thought and forked the last piece of bread before paying and slinking out of the restaurant.

Callie: How’d the date go?

“Awful,” I said when Callie answered after one ring. “I did something bad. Crazy, more like.”

“Go on.”

“I uh, sort of accused him of being the guy who stole the Gorigian.”

“…Why?”

“He’s an art curator with big feet,” I shrugged. “I know, not my shining moment.”

“You’re so obsessed with this case. I gotta go but text me his name, I wanna see whose confidence you’ve destroyed.”

Yellow curry simmered on the stovetop as I set the table, waiting for thirty-year-old Franklin with a cute dog and motorcycle. My phone buzzed as I stepped towards the record player.

Callie: Watching the news?

A familiar face with bird’s nest-esque hair stared at me through the television when I switched it on. The screen was split; one side had a mugshot and the other footage of police escorting a man through Melbourne airport.

“Christopher James Francis was arrested yesterday in Melbourne for the theft of Astray by late artist Luca Gorigian. The disgraced curator had helped organised the artist’s exhibition, through which police say he had enough insight into to orchestrate the theft. Police say the thief’s unusually large feet, a whopping size thirteen, were a key factor in Francis’ discovery.”

Callie: Hope the next date isn’t a thief.

“I hope so too,” I shook my head at the television and switched it off. I flicked through the collection of vinyl records beneath the player, but hesitated when I reached for an album.

“Maybe,” I said and straightened as the doorbell rang. “It would do me better if I didn’t skip the conversation.”