Topaz

© John A. Ward

You can call me on Saturday evening, she said. He did, but the phone rang and rang and nobody answered. He called again on Sunday, and on Monday. He didn't get an answer until Tuesday. It was a barber shop. He asked for her with the name she gave him. They said nobody with the name Topaz worked there, but there was a beauty parlor across the street. Was she a redhead? No. Then she didn't work there either. All of the beauticians in that shop were redheads. It was the color of the month.

When he went back to the club, he looked for her, but she never showed up again. He wouldn't have cared, but some time during that first encounter, she slipped something in his pocket. He didn't find it until the next day. It was a smoky topaz pendant on a gold chain.

Then it happened. He was sitting in the coffee shop, writing about her in his journal. He hadn't gotten further than the first two paragraphs. She walked straight to his table. Topaz? he asked. I'm back, she said. He bought her a raspberry mocha frappuccino. It wasn't on the menu, but not everything was. She said she liked it, and a bagel with cream cheese.

I called, he said. It was the wrong number. She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her head, which caused her hair to fall and cover her eyebrow like of course, why would I give you my real number. Do you think I'm that easy to reach? May I have it back now?

What? Oh, yes, the smoky topaz. He took it from around his neck. He kept it there for safekeeping. It rested right over his heart. She lowered her head and he slipped it over, his thumbs caressing her earlobes as he did. He let the chain fall to her shoulders and cupped her jawbones in his hands, gently. Why are you toying with me?

Haven't you guessed?

Are you my muse?

What? No! I'm your obsession. Your muse is a beer-bellied biker from Luckenbach who smokes those nasty Rum River Crooks. Well, not smokes really, chews them, until they're disgusting brown salivary blobs, then spits them on the sidewalk. Here take this. She gave him a jade Buddha, no bigger than a robin's egg. This time don't call me for at least two weeks.

Call? How?

Rub the Buddha's belly, but no sooner than a fortnight, or I swear, you'll never see me again. And, oh, you need to brush your teeth.