The Downstairs Neighbor

Think of my usually plain brown eyes with little rotating stars and hearts in them.

I have a gigantor crush.

On Ford’s downstairs neighbor. Jane and I went over there last night while we were out doing errands because I forgot my sunglasses there on Monday. He opened the door, and there she was, sitting at that too-hip brushed steel bar, sipping black coffee.

They were talking art. Ford has this delusion that he is going to be the next Jackson Pollock (and a radiologist? I don’t know). We joined in and went downstairs to see some of her work.

Think of a flower exploding. Think of a stick of dynamite going off in a pitcher of lemonade. To a foreground of black silhouettes of pin-up girls and topographical symbols.

She must be between forty and forty five. Jane kept humming “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson…” on the car ride back, and I just sat there with a crimson face like a goon.

The Downstairs Neighbor proclaimed herself half-Spanish and half-Irish, and she’s got this black silky hair that was so long she had it knotted up without a ponytail holder. And a too-big white Oxford shirt.

Ford invited us to stay for dinner, and ordered in some Chinese. (I’m starting to wonder when he does any of this medical school homework.) We all sat around drinking whiskey and talking about Frida Kahlo.

Darcy <after drink #3>: God, how do you paint like that? I’d love to paint like that.

The Downstairs Neighbor: Why don’t you come by on Friday and I can show you some tips on how to get started?

Flirty or friendly?

Wish. She. Weren’t. So. Married.

Gah.

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