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Unfortunately, this particular seminar is one mishap away from earning the title epic failure. The host started off by apologizing for having a sore throat, and thus being unable to present his findings himself. He left that task up to his assistant, who is clearly unfit for this. He mumbled and stumbled through his presentation, spending more time apologizing for said mishaps than actually talking about the subject. When he nervously knocks a glass of water over his notes, I almost give up. He insists on a five-minute break while he prints out a fresh set of notes. As soon as he dismisses us, I leap from my seat, taking advantage of this to stretch my legs.
“Well, this is a waste of time,” Florence says, following me out of the room. She is a therapist too, working at a clinic outside of San Francisco, and we regularly meet at seminars. I like her. “I might as well leave now.”
“I’ll give him another chance,” I say. “Let’s grab something to drink.”
While we help ourselves to drinks from the small buffet outside, Florence says, “You look different. More radiant. Is your grandmother better?”
My stomach plummets. “No, not at all. She’s hanging in there.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
We nurse our drinks, standing near a floor-to-ceiling window.
“Hmm… care to share the secret to your newfound glow?” she asks. “Is it a man?”
I laugh nervously, tapping my fingers on my glass of orange juice. “No, it’s not.”
Florence gives me a look full of meaning. “If you say so.” She looks at me expectantly, but I simply continue to nurse my drink. Thankfully, before the silence becomes too awkward, the break ends and we’re ushered back into the seminar room.
As the assistant starts mumbling through the presentation again, my phone vibrates with an incoming message from Max.
Max: I just had someone spill an entire glass of wine and the contents of their plate on my shirt. Please tell me you’re having a better evening. How’s the seminar going?
The corners of my lips lift in a smile, butterflies roaming around in my stomach. He remembered about my seminar!
Emilia: Dreadful. I’m watching the guy’s assistant make a fool of himself. Your evening MUST be more interesting. You’re at the rehearsal for the show after all. I pause, unsure whether I really want to know the answer to my next question. Do you have your eyes on a model?
Max: It actually was a model who spilled her dinner on me. On the plus side, she eats. I think she’s the only one from the gang who does. I swear these girls are a mystery to me. How do they survive? They must be aliens.
Emilia: Don’t be an ass. Looking runway-ready requires sacrifices.
Max: I’m still going with aliens.
He still hasn’t answered my original question though. My throat is dry as I hover with my fingers over the screen. Should I ask again? What if he was deliberately avoiding giving me a straight answer? Shaking my head, I chastise myself. Max can do whatever he wants, and it shouldn’t bother me. I shove my phone away, only to immediately grab it again.
Emilia: Do you have your eyes set on any alien? Taking one home with you tonight?
I swear I’m holding my breath waiting for his answer.
Max: Nah, just came here for work. Who do you take me for?
Instead of replying to him, I place my phone on the table and direct my attention to the front. The guy finally got to an important part, and I’m taking notes like crazy. I knew it would be worthwhile to stick around. After several minutes, an incoming message pops on the screen of my phone.
Max: Jonesie, you can’t leave me hanging like this after almost insulting me.
Emilia: No offense
I press Send by mistake before finishing my sentence. Max writes back immediately.
Max: I have a feeling I’m about to be offended.
Emilia: I have three weeks of sessions as proof that y
ou suffer from acute wandering eyes syndrome.
Max: You’re not so innocent yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your eyes doing some wandering too.
Emilia: Hey, eye muscles must be trained too from time to time.
