“I know. We will. I’ll see you on Friday.” With those words, Rosanna hung up.
Matilda sat there for several minutes and then a slow smile made it’s way across her face. What had happened to her playing hard to get and being the one in charge? Who cared? In Matilda’s mind, she still had won as it was obvious that Rosanna wanted…needed to see her as well. Of course, Rosanna might… No, that was not a possibility.
2002
The crisp April air blew through Rosanna’s hair, chilling her slightly but making her feel refreshed and rejuvenated as she sped down Fifth Avenue on her racing bike. Although the day was bright with sunshine, she was glad she had worn her Getting Started With jacket; it was lightweight yet warm. The sidewalk was dotted with Saturday strollers and parents pushing baby strollers. The steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art were strewn with visitors in spite of the brisk wind. Both native New Yorkers and tourists steadfastly held to the notion that spring was here and they should be out in droves. They would enjoy the relatively warm day; at least the temperature was in the low fifties as opposed to the blustery thirties and forties.
The huge, colorful banner advertising the exhibit of African-American prints from 1929 to 1945 caught Rosanna’s eye and she slowed her furious pumping to read the information. She enjoyed experiencing artwork from all cultures and was pleased that the museum would be hosting this particular collection as it was unfamiliar to her. Rosanna came to a stop, removed her headphones and sunglasses, reached into her fanny pack and extracted her mini-disk recorder. Bike riding provided the opportunity for her to clear her mind while conditioning her body, but she did not want to clear out the fact that she wanted to see this exhibit. She did not always find herself pedaling down Fifth Avenue; so she took the unexpected viewing of the banner as a good sign. Wistfully, she wished that Solace could share this activity with her. She had not even thought to ask Solace if she rode a bike. But, of course, that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it? She made a point to ask her. However, if Solace did admit to indulging in that dangerous pastime (especially in New York City), then Rosanna would have to run straight to her doctor’s office for a prescription for high blood pressure medication because she would surely be a nervous wreck from that moment on. Maybe she would shelve that conversation for now. Concluding her memo, she returned her mini-disk to her bag. She stood there, taking in the majesty of the museum and pondered the treasures within. How could she and Solace share this pastime? Would Solace be able to see the artwork, prints, statuary and other object d’art? How was it that they had known each other for four years and had never discussed the issue? They enjoyed lengthy discourses on many topics, had even shared some heated disagreements, which had somehow often wound up in the bedroom. Rosanna smiled at this thought. The subject of art had never come up. Rosanna supposed it was just one more area about which she was too embarrassed to inquire. In any event, she would go to this exhibit. She hopped on her bike and sped off.
Matilda Harper sat on a folded plastic bag on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art watching the passing hordes. She had decided to take a well-needed break from her hectic day at the law office. Her position as an Executive Legal Secretary kept her on a tight-wire. The money and perks were excellent but the hours were brutal. She could barely adhere to a decent lunch hour so she grabbed snatches of breaks whenever she could decently get away without raising too many eyebrows. She pulled her blazer tighter around her slim form as the wind whipped through her sleek, blond hair. As she reached up to brush her hair out of her eyes, she noticed a well-muscled figure brake their bike, pull out what looked like a small recorder and begin speaking into it. Matilda’s eyes narrowed as she took in the woman’s physique. As Matilda wore sunglasses, she did not believe the other woman could see her blatant ogling. Her eyes moved from the top of shiny, black tresses to the tip of top-brand sneakers—and all points in between. What portion of the woman’s skin Matilda could see was a smooth, milk-chocolate color and when the woman removed her own shades, Matilda caught sight of the most beautiful face she had ever seen. All-in-all, the woman was positively stunning. Matilda was taken aback by her visceral reaction as she considered herself quite reserved and conservative by today’s standards.
She watched as the woman got back on her bike and rode off, noting the Getting Started With logo on the back of her red and black jacket. She tried to clear her mind, but the vision of the stranger, gazing at the museum, looking so incredibly sexy would not dissipate.
Matilda’s thoughts turned to her on-again, off-again relationship with L. D. Currently, they were semi-on, which meant they occasionally had dinner together and shared what they referred to as a “session”, but were free to see other people as long as they practiced safe-sex. It was an arrangement that seemed to suit them as they felt that neither was ready for a committed relationship. Matilda glanced at her watch and realized that she had taken a longer break than was planned. She stood hurriedly, collected her belongings and headed back to her office, a secret, sad smile on her lovely face. Would she ever see the beautiful stranger again? She supposed that there was a slim chance as New York City was not as large as it might seem. Her mind’s eye flashed back to the Getting Started With logo on the woman’s jacket. Was that a company? She would do a little searching. She would also make it her business to visit the museum a bit more often.
The following Saturday morning found Solace visiting her family and Rosanna standing on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She ran up the steps and through the entrance. She deliberately carried her few items in a small leather pouch, as she was aware that security would be tight and backpacks were discouraged. She walked to the information desk, collected a brochure for the exhibit and made her way through the myriad corridors to her desired goal. She was fascinated by the prints, which were both in bold colors as well as black and white. She wondered at an artist’s decision to create what might be called stereotypical characters. She was so engrossed with the fine artwork she barely noticed the time. Her knee let her know. It never ceased to amaze her that she could cycle for lengthy periods of time, but standing too long would cause her excruciating pane in her right knee. She had arrived at the museum at eleven o’clock and it was now one. She wandered from room to room one last time (working out the stiffness in her knee), and decided to purchase the book, which contained all of the pictures of the exhibit. She had been powerfully affected. The art had evoked feelings of tenderness as well as great anger, and she wanted a memento.
She left the exhibit, found an information desk and asked where she might find the gift shop. Rosanna weaved through the boisterous crowds, her short boot heels rapping purposefully on the polished floor. She located the gift shop, which was also surprisingly jammed. “Tourists”, she grumbled as she stood in the entrance, taking in the store. Spotting the book, she strode toward the shelf with single-minded determination. She reached for the book and collided with a woman reaching for the same item at the same time. Their arms became entangled and Rosanna landed on the woman’s right foot.
“Ouch!” The woman shrieked.
“I’m so sorry,” Rosanna stammered as she disengaged herself from a slim, blond woman of approximately the same height as herself, “I wasn’t paying attention. The exhibit was so intense and I was so intent on getting the book that I—“
“I know. You didn’t see me,” finished the other woman, rubbing her foot through her shoe. Without thinking, she leaned on Rosanna’s shoulder.
Rosanna stood there motionless. What could she say or do? She had stomped on the poor woman’s foot. The least she could do was allow her to lean on her shoulder for a bit. She finally said, “Are you all right?”
