Ian Abercrombie initially mistook Paz Duarte for an Argentine. At the time Argentina occupied his mind. Having never met any Argentines, she looked like he thought a woman from the Pampas should.
Springy shoulder-length auburn hair fell around her square face. Hazel eyes did their utmost not to engage in any mirth yet tried mightily from bestowing too much skepticism. A strong jaw almost ran parallel with thin wide lips. When she smiled dimples hollowing her cheeks nearly matched the divot twisting in her chin.
Good posture made Paz appear taller than her 5-foot-4. Good posture also gave her pert breasts which dominated her torso.
She and Abercrombie shared the same gym. He worked out to lessen all possible middle-aged indignities. Paz apparently exercised to frustrate her male fellow 20-somethings.
In the month or so of her membership, Abercrombie had watched Paz shoot down drake after drake. Though not formidable in the slightest, to him at least, Paz managed deflecting every youth imagining himself that irresistible heartbreaking gallant.
To a man each took his dismissal hard. From his aerie of experience Abercrombie shook his head, laughed at their plights, then hoped he'd never swung that hard and whiffed at the same age.
Rumors finally moved him to act. The more hurt, less mature failed suitors began opining that Paz was a dyke. Whether true or not was immaterial. The angry claim simply piqued Abercrombie.
She was some kind of artist. That's all he knew about her.
He broke the ice during a strenuous late afternoon. Abercrombie introduced himself. Before responding, Paz gauged him. Her handshake was firm. Neither shied in the presence of the other. Rather as she later told him he became fuller. It was the first time he'd really seen her smile.
Those thin lips hid a giant smile.
Abercrombie purposely focused on her face. Although she wore loose gym wear, honest toil had adhered swaths of clothing against her. He discerned she had a tight body. Being mistaken for a South American amused her. Paz lightly corrected him.
"No. Spain. By way of Mexico."
Listening to her, really listening to her, Abercrombie heard remnants of Castile in her American English voice. Indeed hers wasn't a Central American or Caribbean inflection.
"That's a roundabout way of arriving," Abercrombie said.
His unintentional understatement bathed him in her big smile and an even bigger laugh.
"Brother, if you only knew ..."
Comportment regained, Paz confessed to having spied him. She liked how Abercrombie performed his workouts. Though not remote, he didn't needlessly socialize. She said his efficiency matched her own.
Her nipples stiffened beneath the damp top as they chatted. He discounted his affect. Air flow from an HVAC vent could've caused the reaction.
"Besides," Paz added, "you always read a book on the bike. You're one of the very few in here who doesn't watch TV while you ride."
Reading made miles on the stationary bicycle pass faster. Nothing shown on any of the gym's televisions ever did that. She valued he used his time constructively.
With practiced casualness Paz mentioned several pieces of her portraiture would be exhibited in the local art Mecca. She further let drop the premiere night and time as well as informed him of an open bar reception for contributors and guests.
He acknowledged the invitation and promised his attendance.
Curious rather than anxious, Abercrombie arrived at the appointed place at the anointed time. The exhibition hall filled the ground floor of a disused bank tower. Upper-floor suites had been refigured into ateliers or writers dens.
A good crowd attended. Most of it murmured appreciatively in a clockwise drift. "Hispanic" in all its permutations formed this show's theme. Abercrombie didn't know which the more excessive: the artists' channeling Frida or too much magical realism mixed with mental peyote.
Fortunately the cava was chilled. He grabbed a stem and sipped.
Paz came upon Abercrombie just as he reached her works. In manner and dress she surprised him. Concerning the first, gone was the gym comportment. She kissed both his cheeks. Second, away from exertion, making use of lightly applied cosmetics, primped hair, and a demure outfit emphasized her shining fitness.
She complimented his suit. If she'd known designer labels, or had been aware of his modestly-paid profession, she ought have wondered how he afforded such clothes. The story behind this suit and numerous other pieces of clothing crowding his wardrobe was by turns exploitive and picaresque, eye-opening and conspiratorial.
He looked Paz over twice. Neither inspection was involuntary. Abercrombie's attention slightly embarrassed her. She recovered in short order. He almost apologized but before doing so she thanked him for his support.
His demurral got swamped when she continued.
"The other day just before you left the gym, you were talking to those guys. It was about me, right? What did they want?"
Yes, a tight clutch of lifters bogged Abercrombie's departure. They were eager for any tidbits about Paz. Mainly how Abercrombie had gotten her to converse civilly. Each of them had tales of terse rejection.
"They wanted me to give them the key," Abercrombie said. "the one that wends ways into your tenderness and generosity."
Paz scowled. "Ah! Those muscle heads! After 'hello,' 'what's your name?' their next topic always involves me getting on my knees or back."
"That's an abrupt transition."
"They're delusional," Paz said. "Instead of lifting those weights, they let them smack their heads. What else did they say?"
"My telling them how smart and charming you are didn't matter. They must've misheard me. To them you're either a fool for preferring women or stupid from being strange. They weren't going to be persuaded otherwise."
Anger knitted her brow.
"Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how old they are, they're still boys. None of them would ever measure up anyway."
Paz' sudden turmoil faded when a one-man, two-woman knot of well-wishers crushed the pair. After Paz and the arrivals exchanged cheek-to-cheek greetings, she introduced them to Abercrombie. These were some of her closest colleagues.
All taught at a regional ecole/lycee/college that jammed together students whose parents were conflicted ex-pats, French corporate pawns and oh-so-pretentious Americains.
The five felt fortuitous coincidence after Abercrombie announced himself as another slave in academe. He taught American Literature at one of the better small liberal arts colleges sprinkling the Hudson Valley. He saw his rising esteem reflected in Paz' eyes.
Until his revelation the distance between them closed at cool molasses speed. Now she squeezed the gap between them.
Her male colleague, Greg, made a feeble attempt at being jocular.
"Must be tough. A big good-looking guy like you fending off all those hot and bothered English majors. Tell me, a lot of those girls think your course would be a grind that might boost the GPA? Certainly Am Lit sweetens the transcript, yeah? Man, are they ecstatic to see you or what?"
Greg's shallow suggestion of male prerogative landed flat with his colleagues. They may've drawn salaries from a French school, but the women remained fairly American in attitude.
Abercrombie deflated Greg altogether.
"Greg, mine are upper-level elective courses. I'm a hard master so the kids don't come in just batting their eyes. And showing some leg doesn't make the cut either. Although lemme tell you when I was younger -- and untenured -- yeah, the abundance of available pretty women did tempt me to sample. But it's a funny thing. It's something more noticeable with young adults than with adolescents. The pool stays the same age. Only the diver gets older. And after a while if the diver's smart enough, he realizes he ought to stay away from the pool before he's regarded as an old fool."
Paz' female colleagues happily nodded their agreement. Greg, gently chastened as he was, took sharp interest in one of Paz' canvases. The artist herself did nothing to disguise her greater admiration of Abercrombie. He couldn't help simpering.
When the reception ended and goodnights said, Paz and Abercrombie remained among the stragglers and custodial crew. Before the event's bartenders packed away all their service and wares, she filched two bottles of cava and stems.
Abercrombie heard Paz' request for his accompaniment to her studio almost as a demand. She also caught her voice's iron. Their shared grins were between sheepish and knowing.
She maintained a west-facing sixth-floor studio. Past the frosted glass door and opaque transom above beckoned a quiet warmly lighted creative jumble. Shoji screens divided the room into new geometries.
Half-finished canvases waited for creative bursts towards completion. Ideas rendered through rough sketches abounded either taped or tacked to any vertical surface. Paints and brushes piled on tables. Adjustable metal stools, several worn wing chairs, and a couch provided seating.
As an afterthought, maybe, a bed invited along the wall opposite windows staring into nighttime sky. Rumpled sheets and dented pillows demonstrated no effort to conceal their recent use.
"Cozy," Abercrombie said.
"An adult playpen," Paz said. "And I'm an adult!"
She quickly scoured a table free of art tools, filling the space with the bottles and glasses. In their gym, clunky gear dulled much of her physical appeal. Tonight, though, sheathed in a flattering dress, wearing heels that accented her calves and raised her ass, granted Abercrombie a pleasing new perspective.
