Ian Abercrombie initially mistook Paz Duarte for an Argentine. At the time Argentina occupied his mind. Having never met any Argentines, she looked like he thought a woman from the Pampas should.
Springy shoulder-length auburn hair fell around her square face. Hazel eyes did their utmost not to engage in any mirth yet tried mightily from bestowing too much skepticism. A strong jaw almost ran parallel with thin wide lips. When she smiled dimples hollowing her cheeks nearly matched the divot twisting in her chin.
Good posture made Paz appear taller than her 5-foot-4. Good posture also gave her pert breasts which dominated her torso.
She and Abercrombie shared the same gym. He worked out to lessen all possible middle-aged indignities. Paz apparently exercised to frustrate her male fellow 20-somethings.
In the month or so of her membership, Abercrombie had watched Paz shoot down drake after drake. Though not formidable in the slightest, to him at least, Paz managed deflecting every youth imagining himself that irresistible heartbreaking gallant.
To a man each took his dismissal hard. From his aerie of experience Abercrombie shook his head, laughed at their plights, then hoped he'd never swung that hard and whiffed at the same age.
Rumors finally moved him to act. The more hurt, less mature failed suitors began opining that Paz was a dyke. Whether true or not was immaterial. The angry claim simply piqued Abercrombie.
She was some kind of artist. That's all he knew about her.
He broke the ice during a strenuous late afternoon. Abercrombie introduced himself. Before responding, Paz gauged him. Her handshake was firm. Neither shied in the presence of the other. Rather as she later told him he became fuller. It was the first time he'd really seen her smile.
Those thin lips hid a giant smile.
Abercrombie purposely focused on her face. Although she wore loose gym wear, honest toil had adhered swaths of clothing against her. He discerned she had a tight body. Being mistaken for a South American amused her. Paz lightly corrected him.
"No. Spain. By way of Mexico."
Listening to her, really listening to her, Abercrombie heard remnants of Castile in her American English voice. Indeed hers wasn't a Central American or Caribbean inflection.
"That's a roundabout way of arriving," Abercrombie said.
His unintentional understatement bathed him in her big smile and an even bigger laugh.
"Brother, if you only knew ..."
Comportment regained, Paz confessed to having spied him. She liked how Abercrombie performed his workouts. Though not remote, he didn't needlessly socialize. She said his efficiency matched her own.
Her nipples stiffened beneath the damp top as they chatted. He discounted his affect. Air flow from an HVAC vent could've caused the reaction.
"Besides," Paz added, "you always read a book on the bike. You're one of the very few in here who doesn't watch TV while you ride."
Reading made miles on the stationary bicycle pass faster. Nothing shown on any of the gym's televisions ever did that. She valued he used his time constructively.
With practiced casualness Paz mentioned several pieces of her portraiture would be exhibited in the local art Mecca. She further let drop the premiere night and time as well as informed him of an open bar reception for contributors and guests.
He acknowledged the invitation and promised his attendance.
Curious rather than anxious, Abercrombie arrived at the appointed place at the anointed time. The exhibition hall filled the ground floor of a disused bank tower. Upper-floor suites had been refigured into ateliers or writers dens.
A good crowd attended. Most of it murmured appreciatively in a clockwise drift. "Hispanic" in all its permutations formed this show's theme. Abercrombie didn't know which the more excessive: the artists' channeling Frida or too much magical realism mixed with mental peyote.
Fortunately the cava was chilled. He grabbed a stem and sipped.
Paz came upon Abercrombie just as he reached her works. In manner and dress she surprised him. Concerning the first, gone was the gym comportment. She kissed both his cheeks. Second, away from exertion, making use of lightly applied cosmetics, primped hair, and a demure outfit emphasized her shining fitness.
She complimented his suit. If she'd known designer labels, or had been aware of his modestly-paid profession, she ought have wondered how he afforded such clothes. The story behind this suit and numerous other pieces of clothing crowding his wardrobe was by turns exploitive and picaresque, eye-opening and conspiratorial.
He looked Paz over twice. Neither inspection was involuntary. Abercrombie's attention slightly embarrassed her. She recovered in short order. He almost apologized but before doing so she thanked him for his support.
His demurral got swamped when she continued.
"The other day just before you left the gym, you were talking to those guys. It was about me, right? What did they want?"
Yes, a tight clutch of lifters bogged Abercrombie's departure. They were eager for any tidbits about Paz. Mainly how Abercrombie had gotten her to converse civilly. Each of them had tales of terse rejection.
"They wanted me to give them the key," Abercrombie said. "the one that wends ways into your tenderness and generosity."
Paz scowled. "Ah! Those muscle heads! After 'hello,' 'what's your name?' their next topic always involves me getting on my knees or back."
"That's an abrupt transition."
"They're delusional," Paz said. "Instead of lifting those weights, they let them smack their heads. What else did they say?"
"My telling them how smart and charming you are didn't matter. They must've misheard me. To them you're either a fool for preferring women or stupid from being strange. They weren't going to be persuaded otherwise."
Anger knitted her brow.
