Semicolon savior

Was he dead or alive? This thought kept circling through my head as I pulled on my cowboy boots and turned the song on the radio up. “Dry your tears dear girl, put on my boots and hat...” the song was speaking to me and all I could do to keep my composure was to listen and breath. I grabbed his patchwork fedora hat, tilted it off the side of my head, took a quick glance in the mirror and headed for the door.

Pulling up to our cafe had my heart pounding so loudly in my chest. It felt as tho a rush of energy was coming up my legs and I started to shake. The entrance looked so normal, yet everything had changed. If my fear was right, he wouldn’t be standing at the counter or refilling coffee with that oh so perfect grin he only gave me. I would have to endure all the outcries of compassion for eight solid hours. How could I do it? I didn’t have a choice, I was here, parked in the front few parking spots available. I grabbed my little black book and shoved it in my purse. I may not have time for notes today, but having it next to me relieved the anxiety a bit.

“Oh my gosh, how does it feel!?” “Mrs. You won! “What are you going to do with the winnings...Mrs.! Mrs.... Click, click, click flash was being thrown into my every ounce of space until I was grabbed and pulled inward. “Your here!” the words rang quiet and yet sounded like church bells all at the same time. It was him! He was alive, and I was in his embrace! The rest of his words faded past my ears and I soaked in the sight of just him. He was alive! Those beautiful blue eyes were staring back at me. I grabbed tighter around his waist and neck and pulled in. The Patchouli oil was subtle and comforting on his neck. “ What are you going to tell them?” “Babe!?” As I slowly came back to, I realized it was me he was awaiting a reply from. “Wait what?” “The reporters, what are you going to tell them?” “I know this week has been so unexplainable, but I don’t thing the random notes and chicken scratch from your black book are going to make much sense. Victoria, they are going to want to know how you knew that number combination to win so much money.”

Looking back, the beginning of that week started out as normal as apple pie. It was Sunday and we were doing our usual haul of weekly supplies. We were just getting done unloading the last of the coffee beans and milk when I heard my husband talking to a gentleman out front. Our usuals knew we were closed Sunday’s, but it wasn’t uncommon to have interactions with the neighbors that lived around the downtown courthouse while we were dropping off supplies. I had never seen this man and I would have recognized his appearance anywhere because he looked like the scientist from Back to the Future. “What do you think hun? “ Think it would be alright if Robert here painted outside our shop a few days this week?” As I shielded the sun from my eyes, I reached out my other hand. “Hello sir, how are you?” Gage was flipping through some of Robert’s art pieces and I could tell they were VERY good. “I think that is exactly what this corner needs.” How fun would that be?! An active live painter, composing original pieces right here during business hours. “Can you be here tomorrow?” And with a few more hand shakes and big smiles Robert was part of Custer coffee.

You could tell a jury trial was being held because of the amount of people coming from the parking garage and crossing guards. “Going to be a busy lunch today, need to make sure our Wildcat salad is double prepped.” “I’m going to go out and check on Robert.” He had his easel, canvases and paint brushes all set up very meticulously. Two “works in progress” were leaned up against the side of the building and a fresh white board was ready for the brush. “What are you going to start on today Robert for your big debut?!” I said enthusiastically. Robert looked up from his wired framed glasses and I could see his eyes were a very light grey. He smiled all while pushing the rim of his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and shaking his finger in a playful way in my direction. Without saying a word he dipped his brush in a cup of what looked like water and then onto his pallet. With one more glance in my direction, he began to paint.