by LJ Frank
Late Friday morning. A coffeehouse downtown. A breeze was blowing in from the sea causing the umbrellas on the patio to tilt. I was sitting inside the coffeehouse listening to a violin concerto in the background and focusing on the manuscript before me when I felt a hand touch my forearm. “Please, excuse me,” a feminine voice with a Spanish accent whispered.
“Hello.” I said, noticing a distinguished looking woman swish her long black hair from side to side.
“My name is Isabella. And I think I know who you are”
“You think so?
“You’re known for your healthy lust for iced green tea three times a week.”
“Lust? It’s a good antioxidant.”
“Lust or green tea?”
She smiled and nodded. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Personal? My eyes twitched. Well, today is Friday.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve learned not to answer personal questions on Fridays.”
“May I ask why?”
“Unsettling experiences always happen to me on Fridays when I’m confronted with personal questions.”
“Yeah. It’s meant an end of a marriage, a job, death in the family, the dissolution of an intimate friendship, the passing of my dog, a sinking of a boat I was on and barely escaping with my life, being mistakenly shot at, at a border crossing, and my health insurance policy being deleted by my agent on a Friday afternoon. The list is very long. Friday isn’t only the end of the week as it’s been a day of endings…at least for me.”
“Wow! Personally, I try to look at such life experiences as an opportunity for transformation to a higher level of consciousness.”
“Well that’s positive of you.”
“Hopefully what I am about to ask isn’t viewed as an ending…perhaps it may turn out to be the Second Act.” She said with an ingratiating smile.
“Are you available tonight?”
“Mm. I could be.”
“Well I have two tickets to a stage play tonight?”
“Oh? With you?” I asked with a smile emerging across my face. Perhaps this would be a lucky Friday. Thoughts of passion began to dance around in my head.
“Or whomever.” She said.
“I ‘m an actor in the play. I play a character by the name of Miss Forsythe. The play is called Death of a Salesman.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Yeah, I am. My apologies.” She grinned. “I have something else in mind. Hopefully it won’t be the Third Act. Meet me at the wharf a few blocks from here at 7 pm.” She then touched my arm again, got up and started to walk out the door, turned to look back at me, winked and departed.