Free A Note From an Old Acquaintance by Bill Walker

and touched the sleeve of his leather jacket. “How about we just talk for awhile?”
    “Sure....” The word nearly caught in his throat.
    “You want something?”
    “W—What?”
    Her ruby-red lips parted in a wry grin, revealing white even teeth. “To drink,” she added.
    “Oh, right, sure, that would be great.”
    Relax, Weller, relax!
    Brian’s paralysis ended and he slipped into a space next to her at the bar, signaling the bartender once again. He felt the redhead watching him and his pulse raced. The Sam Adams arrived moments later.
    She nodded then led the way toward the other end of the room. The crowd pressed in on them, yet Brian felt as if his feet were lighting on cushions of air. And though he was on his third beer, alcohol never made him feel like this.
    They came to another sunken area behind a wall of Plexiglas dotted with candlelit tables and more plush chairs. Here, the music lost its thunderous power, making for a tranquil and intimate atmosphere—a sonic oasis. Except for half a dozen other couples, they were alone. The redhead sat down at a table hidden in the shadow of one of the “Marias” and Brian took the seat opposite her.
    Those eyes found him again, so large and round and green, brimming with a vitality and intelligence that exhilarated and scared him witless. He just wished he could think of something funny and brilliant to say, something that wouldn’t make him sound like a bloody fool.
    “My name’s Brian, by the way. Brian Weller.”
    “Joanna Richman.” She extended her hand. Brian took it, marveling at the long, graceful fingers and their silken softness. Yet her grip was firm, resolute, surprising him. She held his hand a moment longer than he expected then released it and picked up her wine glass.
    Brian’s hand tingled where her skin had touched his.
    “I have to be honest,” Brian began, “I’m kind of off-balance, here.”
    “Me, too,” she said, laughing.
    A loose strand of curls fell over her eyes. She pushed it back then took a sip of her wine.
    “So, who are you, Joanna Richman?”
    “You don’t mince words, do you?”
    “That’s because I’m a writer—at least I’m trying to be.”
    Her wine glass paused halfway to her mouth. She set it back on the table.
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Wait a minute, I asked you first.”
    Joanna’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A woman’s prerogative,” she said.
    Brian smiled. “Fair enough.” He tasted his beer, putting his thoughts in order. “I suppose I’ve always had a talent for words, ever since I was a little kid. And I’ve always loved telling stories, creating worlds that never existed. Yet they existed for me. I’d spend hours scribbling all sorts of fantasies, seeing them unfold in my mind like movies. Now...” he paused. “Now, I’ve got four manuscripts in my dresser drawers, the fifth making the rounds with agents, a sixth I’ve just started, and an antique file cabinet crammed to the gunwales with rejection letters.”
    “You were a lonely boy, weren’t you?”
    Brian stared at her, stunned. “How did you know?”
    “I—I saw it in your eyes,” she said, looking down into her glass. The same curly strand escaped again. She left it dangling this time. “For me it was my art. Like you, I’d lose all track of time when I worked on a piece. Nothing else mattered. Drove my poor mother crazy.” Joanna sighed, shaking her head. “She’d always tell me the world was passing me by. She never understood my sculptures were the way I saw the world.”
    “Nothing passes you by, does it?”
    She gave him an enigmatic smile and sipped her wine.
    “What about now?” he asked.
    “When I’m not working in my studio, I teach fine arts at The Boston Art School on Newbury Street. I want to give something back—give those kids the support and encouragement I didn’t get.”
    “I really admire that. But I don’t know if I’d have the patience to deal with all those sleepy apathetic