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The way her pencil flew across the page, I knew she was an artist. A few minutes later, she closed the book and tucked it under her arm.
When a man pushing a stroller carrying a baby walked by, the woman pulled the book out again and sketched, this time longer.
I stood and approached her. “Are you an artist?” I asked.
“Just as a hobby,” she responded.
“May I see one?”
The woman laughed. “Really, I just do it for fun.”
“Come on.” I sat next to her. “Just one.”
She laughed again. “Why?”
Everything I’d learned about stranger danger when I was a kid made me realize that, right now, I was the stranger. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I just have this feeling I was supposed to meet you. And since I’m a partner in an art gallery, I’m thinking I’m supposed to discover you.” It was the most forthright answer I could give her.
She handed the book over, and I flipped through the pages.
“You’re really good. I’d love to see some of your bigger works.”
“That’s it,” she said, motioning to the sketch pad. “I mean, I’ve got dozens like that I’ve filled, but I’ve not gone beyond sketches.”
With talent like hers? It was tragic. “You have to. I’m serious. You cannot let an ability like yours go to waste. Meet me later?” I asked, looking at my watch and realizing I’d been gone longer than I intended to be.
“I cannot. I’ve, um, something I need to do.”
“How about tomorrow? Same time? Here, in the park?”
Her eyes scrunched. “Um, sure.”
I almost told her not to worry, that I wasn’t a crazy person, but isn’t that what a real crazy person would say?
Tara was talking with a client when I returned, so I sat at my desk and started a list.
“What are you doing?” she asked after the man left.
“I know this sounds bizarre, but I met a woman in the park. She’s a budding artist. Anyway, I got the impression she can’t afford materials, so I’m going to meet her tomorrow and bring her some.”
My friend looked at me like I’d grown an extra head.
“I know. I can’t explain it. It’s kismet or something.” I realized the feeling that had been plaguing me was gone. “Is it really so awful to do something nice for another person?”
Tara’s eyes opened wide. “Of course it isn’t. It’s just…”
“What? Say it.”
“It isn’t like you. I’m not saying you aren’t generous or charitable.”
“But?”
“I’ve never seen you speak to a stranger. I mean, guys at bars don’t count. Neither do gallery clients. You’re just not that outgoing.”
I thought about arguing with her, but she wasn’t wrong. “I feel like I’m supposed to be friends with this woman.”
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“You know? She didn’t say, and I didn’t think to give her one of my cards. I’ll find out when I see her tomorrow. I’m hoping we have most of this stuff here at the gallery.”