***
The cultural resources report stared at me in accusation. Had it been animate, it would have slapped me by now. A big slap to the face might have been the thing to snap me out of this funk. But the probability of it doing so was about as likely as me finishing the stupid thing.
The Director sat right behind me. It was Friday, going on four o’clock and he still hadn’t left. He never stayed this late and his presence was eating at my web surfing time.
I typed another line of gibberish and then erased it. Matthew had been gone for the week on another project. During that week I sat in the office, angsting like an adolescent, bemoaning how cruel fate could be. At least adolescents had hormones to blame. I was just a pathetic airhead pouting because things had not gone my way. Beating myself up over it was counterproductive, but I didn’t care. It was fun.
The door rattled open and Matthew’s field crew came in. There was that irritating heart flutter again. I sighed. Scolding myself was getting tedious. I was positive the infatuation would pass and then we could even be friends. I sighed again. I wouldn’t buy that line if it were encrusted with gold.
I looked intently into the computer screen. I wasn’t looking at anything, but I thought I was doing a pretty good job of faking it. At this point, I imagined the report was rolling its eyes at me. Things must be really bad if I am animating words on a screen.
Matthew came up to the desk. “Hey.”
At least I didn’t have to fake it anymore. I looked up and tried not to fall into his hot summer bedroom eyes. “Hey.”
“There’s an antique show at the State Fairgrounds this weekend.” He handed me a crisp cardboard flyer.
“Oh. Cool. That looks like fun. When are you going?” He looked a little surprised by my question and I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he didn’t want me to go at the same time. I scolded myself again for being silly.
“Probably around noon on Saturday.” He replied.
“Well, awesome, maybe I’ll see you there.” He smiled, I cringed. Talking to him was painful. I felt like such a ninny. How had I become so socially stupid?
***
I was a little out of place. Actually, I was a lot out of place. Three people stood ahead of me in line and all would have been eligible for AARP. Once I paid my five dollars, I swam out into the sea of fanny packs and walkers. It was interesting being alone in a place where I obviously stuck out and after a few minutes I really didn’t care that I was the odd one out.
Rows and rows of stalls filled the giant building. There was furniture, glassware, farm objects, house objects, books, cooking tools, toys, everything I could possibly imagine people would want to collect. There was a lot I hadn’t imagined people would want to collect too. I was knee deep in a box of vinyl records when I spied Matthew. He stood across the way, in an energetic conversation with a bottle seller. I debated whether I should let him find me rather than go up myself. But I had enough of my wimpy and whiney attitude.
His arms were up in an emphatic gesture when I touched his shoulder.
“Hey! You made it!” He exclaimed.
He turned back to the man behind the bottle table. “Meet Bob, he’s part of the Federation of Historical Bottle Collectors.” I smiled and shook Bob’s hand. “Bob was just telling me about this great can scatter out on the national park.”
We stayed with Bob for a few minutes longer, but when a couple of seniors showed up we wandered away. It was fun moving from one stall to the next talking about the objects we saw and what they were used for and what they meant to us as a country. I try not to get too intense about old things with my friends and family, so it was nice to go overboard with someone who understood.
The crowd slowed as the day moved on and we were able to take some time really exploring our favorite collections. We were flipping through historic photographs when I got the nerve to ask the question that had burned in my mind all day. “Does your wife not like to go to these things?”
He looked at me quizzically, “I’m not married.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” Now I was confused. Mary Anne, one of lead archaeologists, had told me he was married.
“I’m divorced.” That explained it. Sort of.
“Girlfriend?”
He just smiled. Reaching down he took my hand in his and pulled me into the aisle. My heart was doing jumping jacks and I was pretty sure I would die an early death if he kept holding my hand. We walked out the doors into the fading day and he looked at me with his soul enveloping eyes, and asked, “Want to go get dinner?”
Oh yeah, I wanted to go to dinner. “I could eat.” I said, and then I smiled.
###
About the Author
When not writing Erin Lausten spends her time with her archeologist husband and three children in Phoenix Arizona. Active historical re-enactors they participate in numerous organizations such as the Society for Creative Anachronism where she takes her love for history off the written page and into the real world.
Contact her online at:
https://erinlausten.wordpress.com/
https://twitter.com/erinlausten
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