The Artist

A woman, after I left her house, after talking and making out some, sent me a text message telling me she’d like to draw and-or paint me.  I thought about it for a moment as I sped down the freeway into Los Angeles.  This was when it wasn’t illegal to talk on your cell phone while driving.  So, you know, not that long ago.

So, I think about it, what this woman means and it made me feel cheap.  Is that the right word?  Weird.  Awkward.  Dirty?  I’m not certain, but I wasn’t filled with a lot of excitement about that.  Then I started to think, this was a woman I’d been out with a couple of times.  Nothing serious, nothing flighty…not yet.  Why didn’t she say so to me before I left her house?  Was I supposed to drive back right now?  And then I thought how shitty the paintings she’d shown me at her house were and didn’t want to be drawn by someone who did things like that.  I was conflicted for a moment.

I drove home.  And I didn’t text her back.

Much later that night, I was on the phone with a friend and I told her this little story, and when I finished, my friend said, “You’re such an idiot.”

I asked, “Why?”

“When someone says that to you, they want to fuck you.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“How do you know that?”

“Didn’t you see Titanic?”