Painted Ladies

Part Three

THE NOT SO FINAL ENTRY BUT ALMOST TO THE END OF THIS STORY WHERE WE HEAR OF A WIFE, A PAINTER, AND AN UNCOMFORTABLE INCIDENT WHERE TOUCHING WAS INVOLVED...

So out Bruno came. Young. Cologned. Boy regular, jet black Lego style hair. Penetrating eyes.

We walk room to room, where I explain lightly what our home issues are, the constraints, why we are thinking of undertaking the project. I casually mention to him that we may not stay here, that the paint may be for resale, and that all in, we may not even move forward.

Because during the conversation, now some two weeks hence, I know that I'm incubating. What may, or may not be, the next Baby Butler.

And I know that I may go to the doctor and find out there's nothing but a two headed no hearted blob, or that I'll have a viable pregnancy, thus bedrest. That we may lose the pregnancy, thus not move houses. I know myriad things are about to come down the pike, but I know further that you have to walk forward regardless.

So plan I will.

So I start talking to this young man, and through the course of regular conversation, regular casual conversation, he asks about my husband. If he's home. Will he be making the decisions. Or do I?

He asks where we are thinking of moving? Towns? School systems? Kids? Plans?

And as he's asking me, I feel....creepy.
I feel the hairs on my neck stand a bit.

I chalk it up to him being younger. Learning how to patter with clients.
I chalk it up to the language barrier.
I chalk it up to his being uncomfortable quoting jobs.
But something is...
off.

Up we go, looking, discussing. Colors, finishes. Who will lift what, what is covered. Ceilings included? Stain? Paint? WWho does the work?

He tells me then of his business. His father starting it over 25 years ago. The men that work for him, that he keeps employed. That his prices will be competitive. That he believes in loyalty. He mentions his father coming to America.

I ask - curiously - if he is Portuguese.
He is Brazilian.
He looks at me intently.

"And you" he leans forward 'What is your background"
I explain that I am American, barely laying claim to some third generation Italian heritage, that my husband is Venezuelan as well as a smattering of Puerto Rican, and that our daughter is mistaken for Irish.

"Ah."
And your wife?" I ask Noticing both his ring, and his interest in my daughter. The interest a man with a young child of his own takes. One who asks about your childs age so you will ask about his. I ask after his wife.

"Ahhh." he says. Moarnfully. As if she's dying.
Home in Brazil.
Has...The Cancer.

"My wife and I" laden pause. "We are...divorcing."
Hand to heart.
"Oh I am so sorry..."

And in ways that are apparently, while not unique to me, inevitable to me, we then spend a 1/2 hour discoursing on his troubles. His marriage. When they met, how they met, the ages of both parties, the intent. His worth to her, her to him.
And ultimately, what next.

And through a series of what I can only describe as surreal events, this young man, who has apparently seen in me, in all my stained yoga pant glory, ripped turtleneck, first trimester acne, hair askew...he has seen in me someone he saw...
fit to embrace.


Hello?

You heard me. I don't have enough keys on this keypad to create an image vivid enough to explain how shocked I was as this ...boy...pulled me INTO his arms at my front door and placed my hand on his chest to feel...his...beating heart.

"Feel my heart beating" he breathed.

Oh good christ, I thought. I'm about to get sexually assaulted by the painter.
FOR FUCKS SAKE HOW DOES THIS SHIT ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?

So of course, I push him away, we do an awkward pas de deux, there's a lot of scared rabbit looks, some stammering about how I am someone he can talk to (overrated) and finally, with a gentle shove my painter/potential lover/worst nightmare is gone.

Which leads me to this.

Other then in Penthouse, is someone ACTUALLY fucking these guys?
Now I'll grant you, I had my fair share of sex dreams about the siding guy - to be fair I was ALSO pregnant them, and he wasn't too shabby, but what was with HIM noticing me? Is it the pheromones? Am I somehow reeking of "fertile"? Are the catching the scent of This woman thinking - ah, a field ripe for sowing?

Do I give off a VIBE that says "Yes, handy man, put your loving hands on me."
Because if I remember correctly, the siding guy told me he was single, that he and his girl were a casual thing, that it wasn't exactly what he wanted...and he MARRIED her in the middle of my back porch being torn off.

Honestly.
I'm not all that.
I'm not even HALF that.
I am not even a tit for your tat.

So apparently these a whole dirty side to contractors that has to this point been,
for lack of better expression,
unplumbed by me.

Angela's List my ass.
I guess that's why they call it Service Magic.