intimidating.
Michael agreed if his shout of laughter was any judge.
“Right. Well, what kind of music do you like, then? Mariachi and what else?”
“I was kidding about mariachi, although I do like it. I just wouldn’t listen to it while I’m trying to relax… or even drive for that matter. It’s celebration music in my culture. But since you’re from LA, you probably already knew that.”
“So you’re full-blooded Mexican?” I asked conversationally.
“What tipped you off?” came his sarcastic reply.
“It was a rhetorical question. I’m attempting a polite repartee. You said before you were Mexican but you didn’t say… oh never mind.”
“Ohhhh. A repartee . Why didn’t you say so?”
“Are you always this charming, or am I getting special treatment?”
Michael gave a chagrinned chuckle. “Sorry. You’re a good sport. I like messin’ with you. And yes, I’m full-blooded Mexican. What about you?”
“Not a drop.”
“No shit. Your California blond hair and golden tan give you away, hotshot. So what are you?”
“Who knows? According to Mara, I’m English, Irish, Swedish, German, and French. Personally I have my doubts about being French. I think she liked the idea and added it to the list.” I chuckled lightly.
“Who’s Mara?”
“My mom.”
“You call your mother by her first name? Man, my mom would smack me upside the head.” He shook his head mournfully. “Kids these days.”
“Well trust me, Mara isn’t like most moms. I’m sure she’s nothing like yours.”
Michael didn’t respond. I took the quiet to be a normal lull.
“Where did you say you were from?”
I’d been momentarily lost in thought and found myself shifting gears to refocus. “The San Fernando Valley.”
“Me too. Does your family still live there?”
I quickly glanced over before answering. “No, my mom got married and moved to Brentwood after I left for college. What about your family? Do you have any siblings?”
“Two older brothers, a younger brother, and two sisters, one older, one younger. They all live in or around the same neighborhood we grew up in. My folks still live in the same three-bedroom house where they raised six kids. Not much changes with the Martinez clan. Tradition, you know?”
“No, I wouldn’t know. I was an only child of a single parent. I never knew my father. It was always just me and my mom. I know next to nothing about what ‘normal’ families are like.” I did a one-handed quotation and used my other hand to turn right on Michael’s street, signaling an end to a very long day.
“Fuck. Sometimes I’d give anything to know what that’s like.” He sounded wistful and completely sincere.
“Why? I’m the opposite. I wish I had more stability in my life. And less… crazy.”
“Human nature. We always want what we don’t have,” Michael sagely observed as I pulled the car to a stop in front of his house.
I grabbed the bags of samples and followed as Michael navigated the overgrown pathway leading to his front door on crutches.
“Are you willing to paint the outside? I know we’ve concentrated on simple interior changes so far, but this color is….” I stopped talking when I realized I was speaking a little too honestly. I was generally more tactful. I knew how to finesse my language to not insult my client. Usually. It had been a long day.
“Yes? What were you going to say? Not to your liking? In need of a fresh coat? Or outdated?” Michael modulated his voice at the end so he sounded like a snobby, well… interior designer.
I bit my cheek and offered a sheepish grin. “Butt-ugly.”
I was rewarded with his full hearty laugh as I opened the door. I hid my smile and set the bags inside the foyer. We would tackle material selection next week. As much as I dreaded the very thought, I was going to have to get back on the road. I was about to say good-bye when Michael’s cell rang. He saw my intention, but stopped me when he saw the
Michael agreed if his shout of laughter was any judge.
“Right. Well, what kind of music do you like, then? Mariachi and what else?”
“I was kidding about mariachi, although I do like it. I just wouldn’t listen to it while I’m trying to relax… or even drive for that matter. It’s celebration music in my culture. But since you’re from LA, you probably already knew that.”
“So you’re full-blooded Mexican?” I asked conversationally.
“What tipped you off?” came his sarcastic reply.
“It was a rhetorical question. I’m attempting a polite repartee. You said before you were Mexican but you didn’t say… oh never mind.”
“Ohhhh. A repartee . Why didn’t you say so?”
“Are you always this charming, or am I getting special treatment?”
Michael gave a chagrinned chuckle. “Sorry. You’re a good sport. I like messin’ with you. And yes, I’m full-blooded Mexican. What about you?”
“Not a drop.”
“No shit. Your California blond hair and golden tan give you away, hotshot. So what are you?”
“Who knows? According to Mara, I’m English, Irish, Swedish, German, and French. Personally I have my doubts about being French. I think she liked the idea and added it to the list.” I chuckled lightly.
“Who’s Mara?”
“My mom.”
“You call your mother by her first name? Man, my mom would smack me upside the head.” He shook his head mournfully. “Kids these days.”
“Well trust me, Mara isn’t like most moms. I’m sure she’s nothing like yours.”
Michael didn’t respond. I took the quiet to be a normal lull.
“Where did you say you were from?”
I’d been momentarily lost in thought and found myself shifting gears to refocus. “The San Fernando Valley.”
“Me too. Does your family still live there?”
I quickly glanced over before answering. “No, my mom got married and moved to Brentwood after I left for college. What about your family? Do you have any siblings?”
“Two older brothers, a younger brother, and two sisters, one older, one younger. They all live in or around the same neighborhood we grew up in. My folks still live in the same three-bedroom house where they raised six kids. Not much changes with the Martinez clan. Tradition, you know?”
“No, I wouldn’t know. I was an only child of a single parent. I never knew my father. It was always just me and my mom. I know next to nothing about what ‘normal’ families are like.” I did a one-handed quotation and used my other hand to turn right on Michael’s street, signaling an end to a very long day.
“Fuck. Sometimes I’d give anything to know what that’s like.” He sounded wistful and completely sincere.
“Why? I’m the opposite. I wish I had more stability in my life. And less… crazy.”
“Human nature. We always want what we don’t have,” Michael sagely observed as I pulled the car to a stop in front of his house.
I grabbed the bags of samples and followed as Michael navigated the overgrown pathway leading to his front door on crutches.
“Are you willing to paint the outside? I know we’ve concentrated on simple interior changes so far, but this color is….” I stopped talking when I realized I was speaking a little too honestly. I was generally more tactful. I knew how to finesse my language to not insult my client. Usually. It had been a long day.
“Yes? What were you going to say? Not to your liking? In need of a fresh coat? Or outdated?” Michael modulated his voice at the end so he sounded like a snobby, well… interior designer.
I bit my cheek and offered a sheepish grin. “Butt-ugly.”
I was rewarded with his full hearty laugh as I opened the door. I hid my smile and set the bags inside the foyer. We would tackle material selection next week. As much as I dreaded the very thought, I was going to have to get back on the road. I was about to say good-bye when Michael’s cell rang. He saw my intention, but stopped me when he saw the
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