she sat alone,
unintentionally,
her blonde locks poking out from under a faded baseball cap
while she waited to order her lunch
at the italian trattoria on wilshire
just across the street from the workmen's outlet.

she caught my attention
because the $450 sunglasses she wore
wouldn't stop scanning the room
searching for whomever was supposed to be there.

she noticed me
and smiled politely
like women in l.a. do
when they wish to be left alone,
but something about her body language
said she really didn't want to be.

too many sips of wine
caught up to me
and propelled me toward the restroom;
along the way
i stopped by her table
gently patted her bare, toned bicep
and whispered confidently:

"he'll be here. he'd be a fool not to be."

she lowered the car note that sat atop her nose
and looked up at me
as if i'd just told her there was no monster hiding under her bed.

"he'll be here."

i said again.

as she opened her mouth,
the state of louisiana crept out:

"well, if he doesn't get here in, like, the next 5 minutes..."

she failed to finish the sentence,
but the way her eyes moved across me
i could feel her finish the thought.

i smiled
and excused myself.

in the restroom mirror,
a man stared back at me
who contemplated the best way to keep his name out of the tabloids
while inspiring her to sing it
as if he were the lord jesus christ.

returning to my table,
i gave up on basking in blasphemy
when i saw that her company had finally arrived.

after paying my bill,
i gathered myself to depart
and caught her attention one last time.
she smiled widely
and tried unsuccessfully not to stare at me.

as the pile of bronze muscles in an extra medium t-shirt
negotiated his meal with the waitress,
she removed her sunglasses
and mouthed:

"you were right."

i nodded and slipped through the side exit.

before crossing wilshire, i glanced again at the icon
whose eyes were still trained on me
she waved: "see you later."
and i said: "goodbye."

---i'm here---

"...do what scares you..." -- l. varela