toilet. "Stupid BJ," I muttered. That's the name it really deserved.
Vanilla and cinnamon flavored the air, blending with the scent of fresh baked breads. I swirled a spoon in my mocha latte and watched as people sauntered past my table.
I didn't want to be here. Last night I'd wanted to see my mom. Today I didn't. God knows I didn't want to answer questions about my love life, didn't want to discuss the merits of love and marriage. And that's why she'd called this meeting, I knew it was.
Why in the world had I opened that topic for discussion?
Was I an idiot?
Wait, maybe I shouldn't answer that.
Mom had called me early this morning to make sure I remembered our meeting. She'd done it on purpose, making sure I was too groggy to think up a good excuse to avoid her.
Smart woman, my mom.
Finally, she arrived, only fifteen minutes late. Better than usual. My mom had no concept of time, really. Throughout my childhood, she'd made me late for everything. Birthday parties, cheerleading camp, hell, even school. I'd always gotten lukewarm, leftover food at the parties, missed exciting games and never learned the right cheers. Come to think of it, maybe that was when my obsession with punctuality had started.
"Why are you wearing that color?" was the first thing she said, taking the seat across from me. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties. Short brown hair, eyes that were a mix of brown and gray-and filled with a kind of sadness and vulnerability I hadn't seen in a long time. Her slight build and petite height gave her a damsel-in-distress vibe.
"Are you all right?" I asked, concern growing.
She waved away my words and the action wafted a sweet fragrance of lilies in my direction. Lily was her favorite scent. Every time I'd cried over a boy, she'd wrapped her arms around me comfortingly and that smell had surrounded me.
"You should be wearing green," she said. "To match your eyes."
"In case you never noticed, my eyes are gray."
"Never mind that," she said, once again waving my words away. "That brown washes out your skin tone."
Why was she so concerned about my clothing choices? That was completely unlike her. "I like to look washed out," I said dryly. "Otherwise people are intimidated by my glorious beauty."
Her lips pressed together to prevent a smile. "Do you sass everyone this way, or just me? Never mind. I'm just glad you're doing it. I was afraid Richard had killed your spirit. Anyway, we were talking about your clothes and the fact that you should be wearing something green."
My eyes widened as it suddenly hit me. I almost groaned. She knew about Royce. That was the only explanation for this bizarre behavior.
She confirmed my suspicions with her next words. "Why didn't you tell me you're working with Royce Powell?"
Because I didn't want to, I silently answered. To her, I said, "How did you know about my job with Mr. Powell?"
"Mr. Powell, is it?" She tapped her pink oval fingernail against the table surface. "That's not what the Tattler says you call him."
I jolted to a perfectly aligned position any chiropractor would have applauded. "The Tattler has an article about me and Royce?"
"That's why I'm late. I saw the tabloid at a newsstand and almost died." Her pretty face scrunched with distaste. She pulled the tabloid from her purse and slid it across the table. The front page glared up at me.
It was a picture of me walking out of my apartment building. I looked... bad. Really bad. My face was all puckered up like I'd just sucked down two dozen lemons without a breath in between. My hair was anchored back in my usual twist, except my shadow made the twist look eight times larger, reminding me of Marge Simpson.
The caption read Has Royce Powell Been Brainwashed by Alien Female?
Mortification washed through me and I wanted to slink down in my chair. My cheeks reddened. My only hope was that I looked so hideous in the picture that no one would recognize me in person.
"Really, Naomi. Couldn't you have smiled at the photographer or something? You look... I don't even want to say it."
Not wanting to draw undue attention to myself, I kept my voice down. "I didn't know anyone was taking my picture."
She frowned and shook her head. "Sweetie, you need to be more aware of your surroundings. It's dangerous to be so oblivious to what's going on around you. A thief could