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¨I love art. My name is Simon, by the way. And, you are?¨
¨Micola Costa.¨
I’m so used to using my last name these past twenty-four hours that this is the first time it sounds weird sharing it. There’s no Alexander around to push it out of me. We shake hands as I feel a waft of nervousness settles into my palm from him. It’s almost as if he’s been pressured to speak to me.
Simon has a sly smile, and like myself, he, too, has dimples. The little bit of sun highlights his eye color as he continues talking.
¨Pleasure to meet you. I’m not an artist, but I do collect art.¨
¨Oh, brilliant! Do you have a specialty or...?¨
¨Youth art with an emphasis on underrepresented voices such as these young artists’ work we’re looking at.¨ He clears his throat as a wave of joy embraces me.
¨Wow, really? I’m a painter, but I have an art studio in New York for youth.¨
¨ You’re kidding?¨
¨Nope.¨
¨I think that’s simply marvelous. How I’d love to pick your brain. I’m utterly obsessed with youthful stories from the States. And from what I’ve heard, New York’s diversity parallels well with London’s.¨
¨ I’ve heard the same thing too. Are you active in the Arts community here?¨ I question.
¨Hit or miss. I just got back from spending a year in Morocco. I had to get away for some research. Considering I returned last week…No is the proper answer for you. At least for this past year.¨
¨Got it. I’m here on a business trip. My…partner, Alexander Masters, is opening Carvel, the museum, this August.¨
He scratches his chin briefly, looking at a point above my head. ¨ I’ve heard of him. I’m just trying to figure out how…Matani! He´s a Matani, correct?¨
It’s the way he says Matani reminds me of a Costa. I won’t even acknowledge it.
¨Alexander Mastersishis name. Are you a fan of sculptures?¨
¨Not particularly, no. They kind of get in the way, if you get my drift.¨
¨Yes. I mean, I wouldn’t plant them all over my home, but they are stunning to see.¨
¨I have to commend yourpartner.It’s quite a task to open a sculpture museum right before the weather changes. I wish him luck.¨ He pushes his glasses farther up his face.
¨Really ambitious.¨
¨As long as he’s aware of how ambition can kill.¨
That was a tad dramatic. I remove my dark shades so he gets a real view of me. Sometimes people treat others more like people when they see their eyes. A bashful smile spreads across his face as he acknowledges me entirely.
¨Hey…any chance you’re free to join me at the little cafe down the street?¨ He gestures up the road. ¨I would really like to talk about what you do? I actually plan on coming to New York this September to seek out teaching artists for an exchange program and to highlight young artists in a few popular art magazines. I apologize if I sound a bit forward.¨
Is this guy real?Has he been peeping into my dreams or what?
¨I absolutely set this day aside to stroll and admire art, so yes…I do have time. I think I can take chances and have coffee with a random British strangerin public. Why not?” I have to put the obvious out there.
¨I know. I can be impulsive, but I do believe people come about for reasons.¨
The cafe is as old-world as it is quaint. Although one would argue those two can be pretty much the same. Simon is a lot funnier than I anticipated. His facial expressions are as animated as an American, while his humor is a blend between dry and, dare I say, raunchy, as he’s already described the mini donuts in the counter’s glass case as sweaty balls.
We sit across from each other in a hard wooden booth. I’ve ordered a cappuccino and am utterly surprised it tastes as good as the ones I’ve had in Sicily.
¨I’m sure the quality of this drink is due to the excellent dairy on this side of the world.¨ I sip my drink.
