‘Nothing really,’ he answered.
‘You don’t work?’ asked Grace.
‘Nah, I did but not at the moment,’ he said vaguely.
Grace tried not to get up and run. An out-of-work, ex-bike courier who called waitresses babe. Not a chance, she thought.
They sat in silence while Frank stirred his coffee.
‘So, I was thinking we could go to the Cartier Bresson exhibition at MOMA after this,’ he said.
Grace paused. She had wanted to go to the exhibition but with everything that was going on she didn’t have time. Damn it, she thought, do I have to go with him?
Frank waited. ‘Or not?’ he said, laughing.
Grace felt ashamed. Birdie had taught her better than this.
‘Oh, of course, that sounds lovely. I love his work. How are your new photographs?’ she asked politely.
‘Great, although I haven’t hung them yet.’
I’m sure, thought Grace. Probably in his tiny hallway in between his gym bag and his spare bike wheel.
Frank drained his coffee. ‘All right, let’s go,’ he said, standing up. ‘Hey babe, watch the bike, OK?’
The waitress waved back at Frank. He left some money on the table and waited for Grace.
Grace winced at his words.
‘What’s with the face?’ he asked, seeing her reflection in the glass window of the café.
Shit, thought Grace. Then she decided to be honest. She wasn’t going to see him again.
‘Why do you call women babe? It’s a little insulting,’ she said primly.
‘What? The waitress?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, putting her hands in the pockets of her jacket.
Frank tried to hide a smile. ‘Babe, come here,’ he called.
The waitress walked out and he put his arm around her. ‘Grace this is Babe, Babe this is Grace.’
The girl smiled at Grace. ‘Hey Grace.’
‘Your name is Babe?’ asked Grace.
‘Dad was a Yankees fan,’ she shrugged.
Frank smiled at Grace as Babe walked inside.
‘All right, I consider myself told off,’ she said, blushing.
Frank laughed. ‘OK, babe, let’s go look at art.’
She punched him in the arm as they walked up the street together. He surprised her. She found she quite liked him. More than she’d thought she would.
*
