I like talking to someone about my mom. It feels good. I was in shambles when she died. John tried to be supportive but he just couldn’t be there for me the way I needed him to be. Truth be told, he and my mother never did get along.

I’m a loss for words. And more than a little flattered.

Emma is sitting next to me, working on the puzzle, and wearing one of her princess dresses and a tiara.

I smile. He’s trying to determine where my exotic looks come from.

Oh interesting…

I’m not sure why I volunteer this information. What am I going to give him next? My full address? Come and murder me, cut me up, dip the pieces in Lucite, and make a sculpture out of me. He seems like a normal enough guy, but you can never be too careful these days.

Yes, and no.

It is pretty peaceful here, despite the fact that it’s a college town — only about 45,000 people live here. It’s small, but not too small. The weather is a little unpredictable, but the people are friendly, and the downtown is gorgeous. We live in the Hill Section area; the richest neighborhood in the city.

I want to know more. I want to know more about him.

I laugh out loud.

Darn, this guy probably is eighty years old. Why am I flirting with him? Why? Why? Why?

I grin like an idiot again.

“What’s so funny?” Emma asks, brows knitted together, curious. Suspicious?

Yes, I am a mom. A married mom. I’d almost forgotten. “Nothing. Just a friend who wrote something funny.”

As soon as I end the conversation, I’m Googling his scooter. Damn, it is kind of sexy… for a scooter. It’s not surprising at all that he would have one, those things are all over Europe.  

I grab my purse from the front hall hook and throw in my phone. Enough of that for today. “How ‘bout we go to the park, kids?”

Theo bounces over. He’s wearing a bunny costume and has been hopping around the house for the past thirty minutes. He and his sister have gotten into the costumes chest in the playroom. “Can I wear my bunny costume?”

I smile. “No, we’re going to the park.”

He pouts and gives me that look, the one that always breaks me — he’s perfected it. It always gets him what he wants. He gets it from his father.

“Why not?! I want to wear my princess dress,” Emma chimes in.

I shake my head. “Oh, why the heck not,” I concede. “You can hop around the park all you want.”

I’ve brought a book, but I don’t even break it open. I sit on the bench under the shade of a large tree, and watch the kids playing. I think about him. I can’t help myself. I still wonder what he looks like. I imagine him blond, tall and slim. Or maybe small, balding and very old. No, he can’t be that old, I conclude. His mother died just a few years ago, and she was only fifty-nine. He must be younger than me. I just don’t know. I wonder what happened with his mother… why he wasn’t there for her when she died.

I replay our conversation in my head about a dozen times. I enjoyed chatting with him, talking about my mom. I don’t often talk about her, and it’s so odd how I did with him, a total stranger. But that’s probably exactly it. You can say anything to a stranger, a stranger you can’t see, who lives on the other side of the Atlantic. A stranger doesn’t know you. A stranger can’t judge you. I check my watch. It’s 2:30 PM. I do the math and know it’s 8:30 PM in Copenhagen. I wonder if he’s having dinner now. They eat late in Europe, I heard once. I wonder what he eats. With whom? Is he at some trendy little restaurant right now?

It’s been a while since I’ve painted… a month or two. Inspiration has escaped me lately, too busy with the kids. But now, for some reason, the muse has returned. I feel awakened. I see the beauty in small things. I’ve just gone for a walk downtown to take some photographs, something I haven’t done in ages. I snapped countless photos; dogs with their owners, shop windows, the crowds at the bistros, the card shop. But my favorite is the one I snapped of the cat sitting cozily in front of a red door, to the left of him, a pretty window with a pot of red flowers.

As soon as I get home, I print the photo, and now I’m staring at a blank canvas. Elsie peeks her sweet little face in the door. Her whiskers twitch as they always do when she first enters my studio. “Hey cutie, come here. Come and look at this.”

Yes, I’m one of those people who speaks to her cat like she’s human. As far as I’m concerned, she is. She’s a lot smarter than some of the people I encounter every day. I live in a college town, and there are a lot of kids around here, and I think most of them are stoned. And people can’t park for shit — I mean, the painted lines are there for a reason, people.

Elsie sniffs my print — she seems unimpressed. “He’s not as cute as you,” I tell her. She turns her head and walks away from me, as if I’ve somehow cheated on her, just because I’ve taken a photo of another cat. “It’s just a photo,” I hear myself saying, and I realize how ridiculous I’m being. “Oh, how about if I paint you instead in the picture?” Yes, it’s decided —the cat in the photo is orange, but I will paint him black and white, just like my baby.

She hops up on my purple velvet loveseat and curls into a comfy ball. I love having her in my studio. I feel less alone with her there. She’s as good as a human. Even better — she doesn’t chatter incessantly about everything and nothing, like the gals at work, back when I was working. Sometimes, I miss that, though. I miss the camaraderie. Who can I talk to about the latest Scandal episode, or the trials and tribulations of life with kids? Sure, there’s Maeve, Corrie and Kayla, but none of them watch Scandal or have children.

I suppose I’m a bit lonely, in need of connection. Which is probably the reason I’ve developed this unhealthy obsession with a stranger who lives across the Atlantic, someone I haven’t officially met, or even seen.

I shake my head as I get my brushes ready. I’m tempted to check my phone again. I won’t. I absolutely won’t. I’ve only checked it about sixty-seven times this past day. Okay, so I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. Seriously, I’ve gone insane. I’m sure he’s not sitting around, waiting for a message from me. I ponder my reaction to him, and decide that it’s just curiosity. He intrigues me because I know nothing about him. Isn’t it human nature to want to know more? Something unknown is always more interesting than something familiar.

Either way, he’s made me passionate about my art again. Even if I never hear from him again, I’m glad we met. As I set up my supplies, I make a mental list. Paint for a few hours, pick up the kids, make banana muffins, dinner, read a bit before a little Netflix, and hopefully if John is not too ‘in the zone’ as he likes to say, I can distract him from his writing and get a little attention.

Not on list: checking my phone obsessively.