Free Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings by Shewanda Pugh Page B

wanted to say hi. So, ‘hi.’”
    “Hi.”
    Had his voice gone off pitch? God, he hoped not.
    “I liked the concert,” she said.
    She didn’t like the concert. He knew that by the way she kept wincing when they cursed. But she was hot, and he hadn’t been laid in six months, so he went along with the lie.
    “Great. We should go out again. Maybe you could pick this time.”
    Her eyes brightened with the dangled treat. “There’s an art showing downtown. A week from Thursday, I think. Seems like I remember reading that your brother’s work would be on display. We could do that.”
    Yeah, they wouldn’t be doing that.
    “What else did you have in mind?”
    Paige shrugged. “Theatre, maybe? A poetry reading?”
    Jesus.
    “Gavin Hurst is reading at the Barnes & Nobles by my house tonight. We could do that, and go back to my place afterward for drinks.”
    “Gavin . . . Hurst, you say?”
    “Yeah. You’ve heard of him?”
    “Maybe.” Absolutely not. “Let’s make it a date.”
    Paige smiled. “Awesome. See you tonight.”
    Kenji gave a short nod and watched her ass on departure. 
    ~*~
    Gavin Hurst was a short and big-bellied man who forced Kenji to look away each time he licked his lips, usually in vigorous fashion and about every moment or so. Black hair draped his arms right down to the knuckles, and he wore a red cable knit despite the full seventy-five degrees outside. As he stood at a podium in the café section of Barnes & Nobles, he thumbed through a tiny green hardback in search of something to read. Only women were in attendance; women and Kenji, that is—the latter of which sat in blue jeans and a sports coat that belonged to his brother and looked decidedly better on him.
    Kenji and Paige were on a chocolate leather couch at the back. He had an arm around her, though she seemed not to notice, so engrossed was she in this hairy and ultra-gay poet. Her pale hands clasped as if in prayer at her lips, her eyes never left Mr. Hurst.
    Gavin took a sip of water, paused, and then chimed into the silence like thunder. “Volcano. Volcanoes erupt like the soul. Inward. Upward. Quaking.”
    Kenji stared at the guy. He bet he drank. Beer. Scotch. Whiskey. Wild Irish Rose on tough nights. He bet he drank too much and pissed himself. He bet he gambled all his money away and owed a guy named Big Larry way more than he could pay. He bet he wrote about love yet been divorced three times. He bet the guy was full of shit.
    Gavin read three poems. The first one about volcanoes and his soul, the second about the illusion of completion, and the third, well, hell, Kenji didn’t know what he was talking about there. He exhaled audibly when the crowd leaped to their feet in applause, signifying the end of his ordeal.
    “You didn’t enjoy it,” Paige accused, arms folded as they walked the three blocks to her condo. After leaving his Audi in her parking lot, they’d hiked to the bookstore. 
    “I pick the next outing,” Kenji reminded her, and was met with a giggle.
    It was dark out, but downtown, the part of town that housed the American Airlines arena, the docks for the cruise ships, and a varying assortment of tourist traps, action never quite died out.
    They were coming up on her building, a five-story white stucco just ahead on the left.
    “Next outing? Are you asking me out again, Kenji Tanaka?”
    He smiled—but not much, though—because he knew his gums would show.
    “Something like that.”
    Her apartment was small compared to Kenji’s, a series of white walls compacted with a suede red couch, 27-inch tube, and a massive bookshelf in the living room. He could see the kitchen and hall from where he stood.
    On entering, Paige locked the door and gestured to the couch. Kenji sat gingerly and on edge, the way people did when sticking around wasn’t a given.
    “What do you feel like drinking?”
    “I don’t know. Whatever you have.”
    Paige headed for the kitchen. “There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio.