a glass of vintage champagne
When I peered closely at the joined-up writing across her white cotton-covered breasts, she blew smoke into my face.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘there was I thinking you were an intelligent woman, and I find you smoke.’
That was my first encounter with Amanda-Jane.
I met her again two weeks later. It was Open Studios, a county wide promotion for artists and artisans.
‘You,’ she said, looking up from a table on which she was cutting a mount.
‘May I be of assistance?’ she asked.
‘Just browsing, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course, let me know when you would like to buy something.’
I sauntered around the room. It was cool and well lighted, presenting her paintings and carvings in a manner that would have embarrassed many a municipal art gallery. I noted that several of the exhibits bore red dots, and a number of people called in to speak to A-J, as she signed her works. They seemed to be either fellow artists, or organisers of the event.
When we were alone, I asked. ‘Will you join me for dinner tonight?’
She smirked. ‘The Lobster Pot.’
‘That’s OK, I’ll reserve a table. Eight o’ clock all right?’
‘Yes.’ She frowned, then smiled. Turning away, she asked a woman who had entered, if she could be of assistance.
Ten minutes later, her friend Meryl came to speak to her.
‘I saw you talking to him, did he ask you out?’
‘Yes.’ A-J laughed. ‘He’s invited me to dinner, at The Lobster Pot, reckons he can get a table for tonight.’
‘He can, that’s Alistair Haigh; he owns The Lobster Pot.’
About the author
Roger Noons who specialises in short, short fiction is a regular contributor to Café Lit.