The lady appeared again, but this time right next to me. She sat at a table behind us, directly behind my own chair. Throughout the rest of our meal, as I was slipping inconspicuous glances at the waiter, Tanzi's attention was held by this mysterious woman. I still hadn't had a chance to appraise her appearance other than the haunting impression I had as she was standing outside. Tanzi indicated that if he was in a better mood, he might invite her to join us at our table. Ruth and I more or less ignored his suggestions, quite content to enjoy our own conversations. (We hadn't seen Tanzi in quite some time, and there was a lot of catching up to be done.)
"I have a question for you. Actually, it isn't really a question, but something funny..." I heard her say to the waiter (and Tanzi reiterated for Ruth and I). Within a few minutes, she was bustling from table to table, talking with different patrons as they tried to enjoy their meals. At one point, I stood to go to the restroom to blow my nose. To my slight dismay, I noticed she was heading the very same direction.
As I entered the bathroom, she was washing her hands at the sink. "It smells like paint," she barked. I didn't quite know how to reply, as I could not really smell anything. "Doesn't it smell like paint?" she demanded.
"I'm not quite sure what the smell is," I remarked, noncommittally.
"Am I wrong? Does it not smell like paint?" she replied, incredulously. She patted the countertop of the sink. "No, this has been painted recently," she reassured me. I mentioned the condition of my nose and the lack of my sense of smell.
I stepped out of the stall that I had been snatching toilet paper from. She turned to face me. It was her eyes that shocked me.
"I need to be able to see you," she informed me. She stepped closer to me. Her eyes were bright and eager, yet at the same time, they looked blinded. They were almost completely black. It was unsettling. She stared hard at me. She asked me a random question. I can't remember what it was now, but I know that it made me chuckle. I answered her question affirmatively.
"Are you a good cook?" she asked.
"No." I replied.
"Are you sarcastic?"
"Yes."
"You are sarcastic?" she asked, her tone incredulous.
"Yeah, I'm sarcastic." I asserted. She seemed a little baffled. She then proceeded to guess my astrological sign. After prattling off a few incorrect guesses, she conceded.
"Tell me what it is then."
"I'm an Aquarius."
"February 6th?"
"No."
"January 25th?" I held up my finger in response, indicating to guess higher. She guessed lower. "The 24th?" I shook my head. "26th?"
"Yeah."
"I'm a Gemini," she explained in a matter of fact sort of way. "Gemini tend to have split personalities. I had to choose to not be that way though, you know, not mean one day, and nice the next. If you are mean to someone one day, then someone could be mean to you the next day, and make you have a crappy day. So instead of being a shitty-ass, I try to be nice, because what goes around comes around. That's my one motive for being nice, you know. My doctor, he tells me 'Pat, there are two things I like about you. You have a great sense of humor, and you're very sweet'. I get my sense of humor from my dad. I am like my dad in a lot of ways. He only ever said one thing to hurt me. He said to me once, 'Pat, everyone in that grocery store was probably thinking how ugly you are. You may not be pretty, but you have a good sense of humor.' So, I said to him,'Well, since I get my looks from you, they must have been thinking the same thing about you!' and he told me that that was a pretty smart remark!"
I wanted to tell her I thought she was pretty. Not in an insincere sort of way. I hate being cheesy and trite, but I do find that most people have something distinguishably attractive about them. I could see how, in her youth, Pat could have been a very pretty woman. Her haunting eyes bored into mine as I studied her face, her prominent nose and high cheek bones, the way her bangs lay flattened against her forehead. Her voice changed slightly as she continued to share with me.
"I am like my dad in every way, in the way that I look, even in the way that I talk, although I sound more feminine than him. We had the same rhythm in our voice. Is that the right word? Rhythm?"
"Yeah, intonation maybe. The way your voice rises and falls," I offered.
"Yeah. My other doctor tells me I was just like him. He passed away four years ago." Her dark eyes shifted and she looked past me.
"I am really sorry," I said, catching her wandering gaze. "I'm a lot like my own dad too," I added. The conversation lost momentum.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Sanyelle." I replied, emphasizing the 'S' as I am so accustomed to doing. No one gets the benefit of the doubt anymore. I introduce myself to everyone with the assumption that they are hard of hearing.
"Danielle. That's a nice name. I'm Pat." she replied cheerfully. "Well, Danielle, I hope your cold goes away, and I hope that I see you here again. I am here all the time," she explained as she pulled open a stall door.
"It was nice meeting you, Pat," I replied as I exited the bathroom.
Upon returning to the table, I finished my drink in brooding silence. She reminded me of my mother.
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