The Chain-Smoking Artist

One fine day, in response to my profile, I received a message and some photos.  They were G-rated photos – if they hadn’t been they’d have been deleted rapidly.  Interesting message?  Yep – at least enough to pique mine.

I started chatting with a creative, artistic man. In looks, he reminded me a bit of an ex-boyfriend.  His pictures were a bit silly and taken from funny angles such that I had to do a double take to be certain it wasn’t my ex-boyfriend.  It wasn’t.  Truth be told he was cute, but not handsome. 

He struck me as a good-natured prankster, and perhaps a little bit roguish.  He’s a painter, one that displays art in several local galleries.  He is the type to pretend to be a bartender at his own show so that he can get patrons to tell him what they honestly think of the art - thinking he’s “just” working at the event.  This penchant for deception offends my honest nature, but appeals to my practical one – how else do you get a genuine critique?

Attractive in a Han Solo-ish sort of way?  Definitely.

After we’d been chatting for a week he sent me his real, full name and a link to his website.  His art was a nice blend of Andy Warhol meets Gaudi.  Some of his work was macabre, some abstract, some brightly festive – complete with the occasional nude thrown in for proper artistic measure.  He seemed like a well-rounded individual.

We agree to meet for happy hour one evening after work when my kids are with their dad.  He picks a trendy dive bar on the east side.  We trade pictures of the fabric we’re wearing to be sure we can recognize each other – my orange floral pattern and his small, fluttering hummingbirds.  A nice pairing, if you want to let your mind wander to hummingbirds drinking nectar.

When I arrive he’s there on the patio, already seated.  I greet him and he hugs me.  It’s not an overly warm hug, but he’s friendly enough.  He offers me a drink and we go into the bar and order.  Once we’re seated back on the patio, he rolls up his sleeves and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.  He lights one as we start talking. 

I don’t smoke.  I’m also not overly judgmental of people who do.  Now, I know what it’s like to deal with a nick-fit bitch – I was married to a smoker - not to mention the potential health risks.  However, while I’d prefer to date men who don’t smoke, I’m not willing to wholly reject a good man just because he does.

The light breeze wafts his smoke into me - between his longneck and our chit-chat he doesn’t notice.  After a minute or two, I ask if he minds trading places with me.  He looks confused and then, “Oh, yeah.  Sure.”  We trade sides of the table and continue our conversation.

We talk about our children - he’s an absentee dad - and move on to hobbies.  He finishes the first cigarette and pulls out another one.  He lights it mid-sentence, and then it bobs up and down on his lower lip as he keeps talking while he takes drags. 

The wind shifts directions, at least what wind there is.  Really it’s just enough air movement to relocate his smoke to my side of the table and let it hang there.    I move around the table, which allows me both to sit closer to him, and to be upwind of most of his cloud.  He starts excitedly talking about an art exhibit that he is planning.  The exhibit sounds amazing.  The fact that the cigarette is now in the hand that he’s waggling at me is not. 

“Would you mind keeping that a little more over there?”  I ask, gently touching his cigaretted hand.

“Oh, yeah” He answers, semi-absentmindedly.  He goes back to talking about his project. The cigarette burns the rest of the way down and he extinguishes the butt.  He reaches for his beer.  It’s empty, so he goes inside to get another one.  My glass is empty now as well, but he doesn’t offer anything to me.  When he returns, we pick up our conversation.  I enjoy the fresh air.  We have a laugh.  He has a mischievous grin; I like it, except for the yellow tinge of his teeth. 

After a few minutes, I excuse myself and walk up to the bar for another drink, after asking whether he needs anything.  When I return to the table he’s exhaling from a newly lit cigarette.  I take note, but don’t say anything and take my seat in the most smokeless location.  As we chat he explains that when he is working on a painting he gets pretty involved in it and forgets about everything else, even eating and showering. 

“Really?” I ask dryly.

“I can get pretty self-absorbed when I’m painting,” he says. 

Hrmmm.  ‘I can see that,’ I think.  As an emphasis to my thought the smoke is blowing in my face again, but he hasn’t noticed. 

Pleasantly mannered man with little consideration for others?  Unfortunately, yes.

I find a break in the conversation and say, “I have an early morning tomorrow, so I need to get going.”

He says something about it probably being about time for him to head on as well.  We hug and I walk to my car.

My thoughts: cute, roguish, and intellectually interesting paired with completely self-absorbed and inconsiderate. 

I don’t really need to think too hard about this one —> NEXT!