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How I Met Picasso

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I suppose I haven’t been the most faithful lover one could be…I feel bad about that sometimes. Not always though. And of course, I had to fall for…how did Suzanne put it? Oh yes: a “womanizing bastard fraud.” I’m sure he’s lost count of the number of times he’s pulled the same act, and I fell for it like any other fool who wants more than what she’s got. I mean, Freddy’s a great guy, but at the time, I wanted a little more excitement and adventure, far more than what he could give. Picasso knew it, and he pounced.

I didn’t think that he was anything special when he first came to the Lapin Agile, about six months ago now. Just a regular, moody patron. Drop-dead gorgeous, though. He never met any women there, just sat and drew on the napkins, or had shouting matches with whatever art dealer he had with him that week. I got a couple of looks at his napkin drawings after he left. I’m not going to lie, I was pretty impressed.

As the weeks went on, I began to take more and more of an interest in him, despite the increasing lectures from my conscience. He noticed it quickly. I think all men like him have a sixth sense that tells him when women are attracted to them. He let himself make the first move. He came back into the bar one night after closing time, after everyone else had left, even Freddy.

He didn’t even miss a beat. “Pardon me,” he said, “But I think I may have left my hat here in my rush to leave earlier tonight. Do you mind if I look for it?”

I did not look up from what I was doing, having not recognized his voice. “You can look, but I haven’t seen any hats here tonight. You probably left it behind somewhere else.”

He let out a big, theatrical sigh, which caused me to look up. I was surprised that it was him. He didn’t strike me as the type of man who would forget his hat at a bar.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, mock disappointment on his face. “Well, thank you for allowing me to look, Miss…I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of learning your name.”

I paused. He had this amazing half-smile, the kind that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. We both knew what he was doing. God help me, I took the bait.

“It’s Germaine,” I replied cautiously, “Germaine Devereaux.”

“A true pleasure to meet you, Germaine,” He said,” My name is Pablo Picasso.”

He paused. “I’m a painter, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know.”

“I would like to show you something,” he said. He took my hand, and scratched into the back of it. He showed me my hand. An image of a dove was carved into it. It was a beautiful dove. We moved closer and closer to each other. I could feel his hair brushing against my forehead. My head was buzzing, I could hardly think. He was close, so close...deep in the back of my mind I heard a voice protesting. Think woman! You have a boyfriend. You have Freddy. Remember him? The man who bought you roses? The man who loves you with all his heart? The man who signs your paycheck? Picasso spoke. “You know,” he whispered, “I would love to draw you. You would be perfect for what I’m looking for.”

Our lips met, and the back of my mind was silenced.