When You Don't See Me by Timothy James Beck

Author:Timothy James Beck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2007-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

“She’s related to Morgan. I’m sure of it now,” I said to the dogs as they sniffed a mailbox on the corner. If I hadn’t been walking two obviously pampered poodles on the Upper East Side, people probably would’ve thought I was just another New York crazy talking to himself. Few people looked in my direction. Those who did either smiled at the dogs or openly laughed and pointed. I knew how that felt, so I ignored them all.

“Did you see the way she reacted when I called her Morgan?” I asked Tassel, who sniffed Ottoman’s butt and then turned away from both of us. “Oh yeah. You weren’t there. You guys must know something, right? Why won’t you tell me anything?”

Ottoman looked up at me and started to poop.

“That sums it up, I suppose.” I pulled a plastic bag from my pocket and cleaned the mess from the sidewalk. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out on my own. Who needs you two, anyway? Stupid poodles.”

“I guess you told him,” said a guy who’d been waiting for the light to change. I wasn’t sure if he was talking on a cell phone or to somebody else. The only other person waiting for the light to change was dancing to the beat of whatever was playing through his headphones. The guy who spoke looked familiar. I looked at him again, noticing that his dark hair had some curl to it, and how that helped the strategic messiness of its style. He had blue eyes and a ring in his eyebrow…

“Hey!” I turned with sudden realization. “Keith Haring!”

He looked around quickly and said, “Yeah, but keep it down. Everyone thinks I’m dead.”

“Very funny,” I said, thinking about when I’d seen him a couple of months before at the Pop Shop. Roberto had accused me of flirting with him.

“Well, you thought so,” he answered. The light turned and we stepped off the curb in unison. “So, whatcha got there?”

“Huh? Oh, just walking my boss’s dogs. I work at a design firm nearby.”

“Are you a designer? That’s cool.”

“Me? No. I’m an artist. Kind of. I mean—I’ve studied art. Briefly. But I’m not really doing anything now. Other than walking dogs and odd jobs at work.”

“Yeah, but you’re artistic. It’s in your soul. I can feel it.”

“Yeah? What else can you feel?” We continued to walk down the sidewalk, turning a corner and heading toward Park Avenue.

He smiled and said, “I can feel that you’d like to go out with me tonight.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. I was a sucker for cockiness. “Are you sure about that?”

“Oh yeah. You know, nothing fancy. Maybe coffee? Or we could grab something to eat? Maybe just walk, like we’re doing now?”

I did my best to play it cool; then I realized I’d been holding a bag of poodle poop the entire time we’d been talking. It smelled, too. I hoped he didn’t think it was me. I wanted to discreetly throw it away, but the nearest trash can was at the end of the block.

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