Page 20 of The Love Interest
“There’s Aries,” she says, all breathy and reverent.
“You an Aries?” I don’t give a shit about astrology, but I want to learn whatever I can about this person tonight. Or maybe just enough.
“Yes. What areyou? Can I guess?”
“Go for it.”
“Taurus.”
“How’d you know that?”
She finally tears her gaze away from the heavens to give me a knowing smirk. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t speak horoscope.”
She shakes her head and searches for the Taurus constellation above us. “You’re stoic. Stubborn. But I’m guessing once you commit to something…or someone…you’re all in. Except when you get hurt, you retreat and you never want to get hurt again.”
Jesus. I feel attacked. And seen.
She points up at the bull, who’s about to get clobbered by Orion. “Very practical. Stable. Calm.” She blinks, doesn’t look at me when she says, as if she’s realizing it while saying it, “Very relationship oriented. And sensual.” She gives me the side-eye. “Am I in the ballpark?”
“You’re standing right on the pitcher’s mound. It’s horseshit. But that was impressive.”
“Must feel great to be a cynic,” she deadpans.
“It’s fucking fantastic. Where would you like to set up this photo shoot?” I gesture at the rooster I’m carrying. “The clock?”
“Yes. Perfect.” She takes Goliath from me and skips over to the information booth and its famous clock. Placing the rooster on the floor, she suddenly looks up at the ceiling again. “Hey. This is wrong…”
She caught it. That is impressive.
She points up at the constellations. “This is backward. They didn’t paint it from Earth’s perspective. If you’re looking up at the sky, it would be the other way around.”
“That’s right. You into astronomy as well as astrology?”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I like stars and other shiny pretty things.”
“Right. Sarcasm. I didn’t mean for that to sound so derisive.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean to become a cynic either.”
It’s a throwaway line, but the observation gives me pause.
Actually, it really stops me cold.
Only a fucking California girl would say that kind of thing.
But she’s right. Nobody means to become a cynic. I didn’t. I just didn’t try hard enough not to.
I make an effort to say this in as genuine a way as possible, “It must feel great to not be a cynic.”
She smiles and blinks in slow motion again before saying, “It’s fucking fantastic.”
And then she positions herself ten feet away from the cock and takes pictures of it with her phone, calling out to the statue as if it’s a model. “Good. Perfect! Yes! Do that again. Strut around some more! Shake your tail feathers! Yeah, baby! Give me a sly little sexy grin you naughty, naughty cock.”
I nod at the Amish family who are rushing past us to get to the train tracks. “Morning.”
“Okay,” she exclaims. “Done. That’s a wrap.”
