artists

She talked to me as if I were an old friend.

I have that affect on people.

She and I: artists. Her spirit was calm. Like the tide before a big wave. Either she was living comfortably or she was faking. I could not tell.

His kindness was almost overwhelming as he offered me tea and took my coat. He listened to his native music and walked barefoot around the apartment. His non-threatening masculinity paired with his hospitality had thrown me. I wanted to talk with him as friends for he intrigued me.

I am not easily intrigued.

Yet, I was hired to do a job and it is frowned upon to speak to a man who is spoken for freely. At least, to me.

She talked of her life. She was in her period of harvest. She struggles for 3-6 months and then she lives off of the fruit of her labor.

"We are artists. I'm sure you would love to do what you do for free as would I but we can not live in the cycle of struggle."

She understands.

"Where is he from, your boyfriend?"

"Ivory Coast."

He was too thin for my liking anyhow. I wondered about his journey from there to the spacious studio with the woman he'd only been with for a few months. I wondered about how secure she felt with him, with them.

"We should go to Bembe," I suggested already knowing her answer, feeling the Afro-Cuban drums beat in my heart.

I felt as though our friendship had started already. She said she felt as though she'd known me.
She told me too much about herself, forgetting I am but a pretty stranger.

I have that affect on people.
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