I picked up some little taco-shaped dog treats as a preemptive apology. They’d take me over budget, but Peanut was worth it.
At the register, I eyed a little bouquet of white gerbera daisies, thinking it might be nice to have one to tuck behind my ear—something my mom used to do when I was little. It felt like she might like to see me celebrate that way. With a flower.
But then I decided it was too expensive.
Instead, I set the wine and dog treats on the counter, smiling at the store owner, and I reached around for my purse …
Only to realize I didn’t have it.
I looked down and then felt my other hip, to see if I might have slung it on backward. Then I glanced around at the floor to see if I’d dropped it. Then I left my wine and dog treats on the counter, holding my finger up like “one second” as I dashed to check the empty aisles.
Nothing. Huh. I’d left it at home.
Not all that surprising, given the flurry of today.
Marie had already started ringing up the wine by the time I got back and so, not wanting to interrupt her conversation, I shook my hands at her, like, Never mind.
She looked at me like, Don’t you want this?
I shrugged back in a way that tried to convey, I’m so sorry! I forgot my purse.
She dropped her shoulders in a sigh, but before she could start to cancel everything, a man’s voice from behind me said, “I’ll get it.”
I turned around in surprise, frowning at him, like, How did you get in here?
But he just gave me a nod and turned back to the owner. “I can cover that.”
This isn’t relevant … but he was cute.
He was a generic white guy—you know, the kind that’s practically a Ken doll. But a really, really appealing version.
Because of my job as a portrait artist, I can never look at a face for the first time without mentally assessing it for its shapes and structure and most compelling features—and I can tell you exactly why he was handsome and also why he was basic. Artistically, I mean.
Everything about him was generically, perfectly proportional. He didn’t have an outsize chin, for example, or cavernous nostrils or Dumbo ears. He didn’t have Steven Tyler lips or crazy teeth or a unibrow. Not that any of those things are bad. Distinctive features make a face unique, and that’s a good thing. But it’s also true that the most generic faces are consistently rated as the best-looking.
Like, the more you look like a composite of everyone, the more we all like you.
This guy was as close to a composite as I’d seen in a while. Short, neat hair. A proportional forehead, nose bridge, jaw, and chin. Perfectly placed cheekbones. A straight nose with stunningly symmetrical nostrils. And you couldn’t draw better ears. Flawless. Not too flat, but not too protruding. With perfect plump little earlobes.
I am a bit of an earlobe snob. Bad earlobes could really be a deal-breaker for me.
Not kidding: I’ve complimented people on their earlobes before. Out loud.
Which never goes well, by the way.
There are tricks to making a face look appealing when you’re drawing a portrait. Humans seem to find certain elements universally appealing, and if you emphasize those, the person looks that much better. This is a scientific thing. It’s been studied. The theory is that certain features and proportions elicit feelings of “aww, that’s adorable” in us, which prompts caregiving behaviors, affection, and an urge to move closer. In theory, we evolved this reaction in response to baby faces, so we’d feel compelled to take care of our young, but when those same features and patterns crop up in other places, on other faces, we like them there, too.
We can even find sea cucumbers adorable, from the right angle.
Or the man who’s attempting to pay for our wine and dog treats.
Because in addition to his generic handsomeness, this guy also had elements in his features—invisible to the untrained eye—that subliminally established cuteness. His lips were smooth, and full, and a warm, friendly pink that signified youth. His skin was clear in a way that evoked good health. And the real clincher was the eyes—slightly bigger than average (always a crowd-pleaser) with a slight melancholic downturn at their corners that gave him an irresistible sweet puppy-dog look.
I guarantee this guy got every woman he ever wanted.
But that was his business.
I had a forgotten-wallet situation to deal with. And a last-minute party to host.
“It’s fine,” I said, waving my hands at him and rejecting his offer to pay for my stuff.
“I don’t mind,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his jeans.
“I don’t need your help,” I said, and it came out a little harsher-sounding than I meant.
He looked from me—purseless—to the counter of stuff I had yet to pay for. “I think maybe you do.”
But I wasn’t having it. “I can just run home for my purse,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
“But you don’t have to.”
“But I want to.”
What part of I don’t need your help did this guy not understand?
“I appreciate the gesture, sir,” I said then. “But I’m fine.”
“Why are you calling me sir? We’re, like, the same age.”
“Sir is not an age thing.”
“It absolutely is. Sir is for old men. And butlers.”
“Sir is also for strangers.”
“But we’re not strangers.”
“Gotta disagree with you there, sir.”
“But I’m rescuing you,” he said, like that made us friends.
I wrinkled my nose. “I prefer to rescue myself.”
For the record, I recognized that he was trying to do something nice. I also recognized that most of humanity would’ve let him do it, thanked him gratefully, and called it a day. This is the kind of moment that could wind up on the internet, getting passed around with captions like See? People aren’t so terrible after all!
But I wasn’t like most of humanity. I didn’t like being helped. Is that a crime?
Surely I’m not the only person on this planet who prefers to handle things on her own.
It wasn’t him I was opposed to. He was appealing. Strongly, viscerally appealing.
But the helping—including his pushiness about it—was not.
We stared at each other for a second—at an impasse. And then, for no reason, he said, “That’s a great dress, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I said suspiciously, like he might be using a compliment to lower my defenses. Then without really meaning to, I said, “It was my mother’s.”
“And you do a great Smokey Robinson, by the way.”
Oh god. He’d heard me. I lowered my eyes to half-mast, displeased. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he said.
“That sounded sarcastic.”
“No, it was great. It was … mesmerizing.”
“You were watching me?”
But he shook his head. “I was just shopping for cereal. You were the one doing a cabaret show in a grocery aisle.”
“I thought the store was empty.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t.”
“You should have stopped me.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely befuddled. Then, at the memory, something like tenderness lit his expression. He gave a little shrug. “You were a joy.”