Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) (7 page)

These pictures were more than just my youth, they were the real memories that I cherished
—things that were important to me
. I piled the pictures up and tucked them into the drawer, beside the little box that held my bucket list. Then I swept all of the fruity scented candles off my bureau and into the big box on the floor. I was determined more than ever to become somebody that someone would want to read about.

I returned the box to the bottom of my closet. I grabbed a little black dress to wear. Once I had it on and smoothed down I braved looking in the mirror. One big difference between a thin woman and a bigger woman trying on clothes was the anticipation. A thin woman might anticipate looking fabulous, while I anticipated looking like a penguin.

However, the mirror revealed that my weight loss did show. The dress actually complimented the curves of my figure. Tonight was going to be an amazing night. I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from being the woman I should have been long ago. I pinned my hair back into a neat bun at the curve of my head and smiled at my reflection.

I called a taxi, then gathered my purse, my keys, and my phone. I checked to make sure that my phone was fully charged, as I knew that I would need pictures to document my experiences. The evening was balmy and I was glad, as the dress I was wearing was on the lighter, skimpier side. I waited only a few minutes for the taxi to arrive. When I slid across the vinyl seat, the cab driver looked through the rear view mirror at me.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Wherever I can find some real culture,” I said, smiling.

He gazed at me from beneath heavy eyebrows with his lips drawn in a thin straight line. He didn’t look amused or open to helping me out.

“Weston Ave,” I said and sat back.

Chapter 5

As the cab driver drove away from my neighborhood, I studied the people walking on the sidewalks. There was such a variety, from people dressed in expensive clothing to people dressed in ratty old jeans. There was no dress code for the street; everyone got to wear what they pleased. Each person had their own destination that night, and I had to wonder how many were heading to the gallery.

“You can drop me off here,” I said and pointed to an art walk that had been set up along the sidewalk a few blocks from the gallery.

“Twenty,” he said as he applied the brakes.

“Twenty?” I knew that he was overcharging me, but I was determined not to care. I handed him the twenty-dollar bill and climbed out of the taxi.

There was a small crowd gathered around the entrance of the art walk. I could hear snippets of conversation combined with polite laughter. It was definitely not a party scene. I hoped that I could blend in well. I’d never been the most skilled when it came to social situations. I could do “cheerful and bubbly” but when it came down to real intellectual conversation, I was always a little too nervous.

I walked up to a man who was standing at the entrance of the art walk.

“Is there a cost?”

He looked back at me with his long pointed nose slightly scrunched up.

“Isn’t there always?” he said.

I stared at him blankly.

He laughed and the sound was so abrasive that it startled me. “Donations are accepted,” he said. “But not required.”

I smiled, feeling slightly nervous as I reached into my purse. I never knew how much a donation should be. If I gave too much would I look like a show-off? If I gave too little would I be insulting the artist?

Considering I hadn’t even seen the paintings yet, I handed the man a ten.

“The artist thanks you,” he said, smiling as he tucked the ten-dollar bill into a small donation box.

I felt a little more confident as I began to walk along, looking at the paintings. Each one depicted a group of people. One even featured a group of people at what appeared to be an art walk. Some were gathered at a mall. Some were in various states of repose around a lake. Others were waiting in line at a shop or sitting in a bus.

The artwork was good enough, but it was nothing spectacular. They just seemed like normal-life scenes to me. I frowned as I studied one of the last paintings. It was a group of children at a playground. They were all smiling and laughing with one another. It was a nice painting.

“Profound, isn’t it?” a woman said as she walked up beside me.

She was dressed in a sleek silver dress that seemed to be tailored to enhance the shape of her body. Her hair was flawless, her make-up was just enough. I felt awkward as I looked over at her. I didn’t really see anything profound about the painting.

“To think that she did this over the span of a year, and this is the only one.”

I really had no idea what the woman was talking about. I didn’t want to sound uninformed, but I also didn’t want to miss out on the point of the collection.

“Only one?” I asked and raised an eyebrow.

The woman regarded me for a moment, then a look of realization crossed her delicate features. “Oh, you don’t get it,” she said with a soft laugh. I must have blushed, because she rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, neither did I at first. This particular artist set out to do voyeur scenes of the expressions of people as they interacted with each other. She visited several different locations over a year in an attempt to capture those intimate moments between people. But she couldn’t seem to find anyone who was actually looking at each other”—she gestured to the paintings I had already walked past. “If you look at them again you’ll see that no one is facing another person. No one seems to be talking or interacting with anyone else.”

“Really?” I said, surprised. “I didn’t even notice that.”

“No one does,” the woman said. “The artist herself explained it to me, that’s why I know.”

“But this last one?” I pointed to the painting in front of us.

“The only one.” The woman nodded. “Children look at each other in the face. They laugh with each other. They look into each other’s eyes. That was what the artist was trying to point out
—
that at some point for some reason we stop seeing one another.”

I smiled. “That really is profound,” I said quietly.

“Yes, it is.” The woman smiled back at me.

“Do you think it’s real or do you think the artist just staged it?” It was hard for me to believe that people in so many different places didn’t bother to even look at one another.

“I honestly don’t know. But I also don’t think it really matters. I mean, it speaks to you, doesn’t it?” she asked. “These days, what do you do if you want to meet someone new? Is there somewhere you can go where it’s acceptable to just walk up and introduce yourself and ask to be friends?” She laughed a little. “We leave that honesty behind on the playground.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, feeling rather reflective about the whole conversation.

Chapter 6

I couldn’t imagine just meeting someone in the grocery store or while out for a walk. As I turned back to face the woman, inspired to introduce myself, I found that she’d already walked off.

I looked back at the painting of the children. It struck me that maybe being mature wasn’t the best thing in the world. Was it age that isolated us from one another, or insecurity?

With these thoughts on my mind I walked toward the gallery. I was looking forward to getting a selfie outside the building so that I could prove that I was there. I paused outside and fidgeted with my phone.

I hadn’t mastered the art of taking a good selfie. Usually I ended up with one eye half shut or a clear view of the inside of my nostril. Determined to make it great for my blog, I practiced a few different expressions. When I heard a smothered laugh I looked to my right to find that a small line had formed behind me. I was blocking the entrance of the gallery and everyone waiting was being treated to my selfie practice.

“Sorry.” Embarrassed, I started to move out of the way. Right at that moment I hit the button on my phone. Once everyone had walked past me with strange and amused looks, I checked the picture. I’d managed to get a half-shut eye and one nostril pose, with a nice shot of horse teeth thrown in when I gasped. I sighed and went to delete the picture; however, as I was hitting the button to delete it, someone jostled past me to get into the gallery and my hand bounced across the screen of my phone.

I saw the confirmation:
Sent
. My eyes widened as I wondered who in the world I had sent such a horrible picture to. I checked my texts to discover that in the midst of everything Max had sent me a text.

What are you up to, beautiful?

In response I had inadvertently sent him back the most hideous picture I’d ever taken of myself.

“Oh no.” I groaned and started to send a text explaining the situation. Before I could get it typed Max had sent me another text.

Sexy.

I glared at the phone and turned it off. I knew he was teasing me. I decided to forget about the selfie and continue with my evening.

As I stepped into the gallery, I willed myself to act cultured. The gallery wasn’t very crowded. I was a little surprised to see that it featured photographs rather than paintings. The images were quite breathtaking, if not a little mind-boggling. It took me several minutes to figure out that what I was looking at in one photograph was a single flower petal. The artist seemed whimsical and playful.

There was one thing that Barry had been right about. The crowd
was
on the older side. Most looked to be in their early fifties and older. I didn’t mind though, as I was so enraptured by the photographs, I didn’t have time to attempt to socialize.

I paused in front of one particular image which was the swirl of a thumbprint. I stared at it for some time. I was certain that there was some kind of wise and witty blog post that I could come up with, inspired by that photograph.

“The circles we follow,” I mumbled to myself and then shook my head. “Our paths are designed before we’re born, like thumbprints,” I whispered to myself. I scrunched up my nose and shook my head. “Too New Age.”

I sighed as I continued to study the picture. I wished that it could just talk to me, give me something to write about.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” a smooth voice asked from beside me.

I was startled, as I hadn’t even noticed that someone had come to stand next to me. He was a tall man, slender, dressed impeccably. His hair was a mixture of blond and silver, a combination I hadn’t seen on many men. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps a little older. His expression was serene as he continued to study the photograph.

“It’s endless, eternal, and yet minuscule.” He smiled, looking very pleased with himself.

In three words he had summed up everything I had been feeling about the photograph. I was enchanted as I met his eyes.

“I was just thinking that,” I said with a nervous smile.

“Oh?” he asked. “Well, I guess great minds think alike.” He smiled.

“Maybe they do,” I said. “I’m Samantha.”

“Ronald,” he replied and tipped his head slightly in my direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samantha. There are many great works to see here. Are you a fan of the artist?”

“Actually this is my first time seeing the work,” I smiled, feeling slightly nervous and awkward. “I really just came for the wine.” I laughed much too loudly.

My joke obviously fell on deaf ears; I noticed his eyes narrow.

“I see,” he said under his breath as he started to turn away.

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that I didn’t even know that these shows existed until tonight,” I called out to him.

“Well, now you do,” he said with a soft smile before walking toward the next photograph.

I didn’t want to follow him, potentially giving off the stalker vibe. He was so distinguished. I was certain that he would have a million things to put in a blog.

I looked back at the photograph. The thumb looked like it was mocking me.

“I’ll tell you where you can stick that thumb,” I said under my breath as I moved on to the next display.

Chapter 7

As I studied each photograph, I waited for an epic thought to enter my mind. Something that would make a reader stop and say,
Wow, this girl really has it all figured out
. But my mind filled with thoughts of hot dogs, cheeseburgers, and chef’s salad.

I was starving. My stomach had begun to growl. I hoped that I was the only one who could hear it. As if on cue, they began handing out the wine. One thing I’d learned from dieting was that it was
not
a good idea to drink wine on an empty stomach. I’d had the worst hangover of my life one time after skipping all the high-calorie treats at a wedding so that I could focus on the wine.

I turned quickly and tried to duck out the front door of the gallery. I was sure there had to be a vendor of some kind out on the street. Just a quick hot dog or pretzel would help me soak up the wine I was looking forward to drinking.

When I reached the door I found a couple standing in front of it. They were talking softly to one another. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes. I was stunned by the way they never looked away, not even to laugh or offer a shy smile. It was as if they were only aware of each other. I didn’t want to interrupt that. I wanted to
be
that. I wanted someone to find
me
that fascinating.

When a waiter walked by to offer me a glass of wine, I snatched it off the tray, downing it in just a few quick swallows.

“Oops.” I frowned as I felt the sudden heat hit my cheeks.

“Didn’t you get a glass of wine?” another waiter asked with concern. He handed me another glass before I could answer.

I noticed that I had drawn a few stares from other patrons because of my wine guzzling. Everyone else was taking their time, going through the process of tasting their wine, rather than chugging it like a frat boy.

I cleared my throat and did my best to follow the same steps that I saw other people taking. I attempted to swirl the wine in my glass; however, the wine refused to stay
in
the glass. Instead it splashed over the brim and all over my hand. I cringed as the cool liquid covered my palm. I looked around for a napkin, but before I could find one, a man stepped up beside me. It was the same suave older gentleman that had drawn my attention earlier.