Barefoot in the Mud (Bishop C8 to G4)

Who knew that “you’re disgusting” would be such a successful pickup line? Maybe it was the name she’d used preceding it. His father’s name. Yet he’d answered to it. Corrected her, but not immediately. As for herself, she’d given him her assignment name.

He’s not what everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks. What did he think, this unnervingly earnest young man?

They had gone to a bar of his choosing. He got points for “keeping it real.” It wasn’t one of the hipster spots where the current crew of loft artists hung out, but a chipped-tile hole in the wall with good grub and a decent assortment of microbrews. They sat in a booth in a dark corner and he ordered a beer while she’d asked for a martini, stirred.

“So we work for the same client. Are you a contract employee or regular hire?”

Donning a loose Mae West, she had answered, “Listen doll, there’s nothing regular about me.”
He smiled – was that a blush? “I don’t doubt it. You’re on assignment then.” Nodding to her camera bag. “Photographer?”

Her head tilted, assessing him. “When I need to be.” She seemed to be weighing something, and he noticed her arm, which rested casually over the envelope on the table, shift a fraction.
“And is that what our client needs you to be?”

The waitress brought their drinks and Bishop waited until he’d taken a swallow of his beer. “I saw one of your paintings today.”

“Really? Where?”

“I can’t remember what it was called. It’s of a young woman, a girl almost, standing in water near the bank of a river. Mud and silt squished between her toes. She’s wearing a skirt and a long sweater, and the sweater’s pockets are filled with rocks. She’s holding two smooth, flat stones in her hands and she’s looking out towards the middle of the river. And it’s when you follow her gaze that you notice the dying ripples of a skipped stone.”

“What were you doing at my mother’s house?”

“It was something like Sierra on the River’s Edge.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“No, not Sierra – Serena? No, was it Seanna? Something like that.”

“Sienna, at the River’s Edge.”

“Sienna. Yes. That was it.” She took a sip of her martini. “Was that her real name?”

“Do you ever answer other people’s questions?”

“Ahh. Well done! See what a nice trick it is? You ought to employ it more often; save a bit of yourself for you.”

“No. It was the color she reminded me of.”

His voice and eyes held a direct challenge, and it was then that she had made her decision. She stood, leaving the envelope on the table and nodding at him.

“I think you should have a look.”

He paused, his eyes still meeting hers, before picking up the envelope and pulling out a manila file. The top document seemed to be a report, the subject of which was… him.

“What is this? Where did you…”

“Go to the back.” At the bottom of the file a series of 8x10 photographs. Anna. The loft. His face flushed a deep shade of cabernet.

“Our client didn’t need me as a photographer. Apparently they have one already.”

“Who are you?”

She could only shake her head before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”