By lunch, the first stages of the re-design are in place. The host's desk, a sweeping arc to accommodate his sweeping gestures, gleams under the tier of lights. The mirroring lip of the dais stands in contrast, bright as caution strips—can't have him tripping (again) in his exuberance. The table and chairs for the guests have become an impromptu café, as the crew takes fifteen and the tins and sacks and insulated bags appear from nowhere. I watch them for a moment, drinking in their contentment, the respite from labor and the pride of hard work done well.
My own bag lunch, a ham and cheese on rye I threw in sometime before dawn, is in the green room, and I'm thinking about nabbing it, when an intern approaches me, balancing a covered platter on his hand like a waiter in a five-star restaurant.
"Mr. Borlock?" He's uncertain, and should be, since I've told them all to call me Leo about a dozen times. "The lady outside said this was your order."
I frown at the plate for a moment. "I didn't order anything," I say, but reach for it anyway, lifting the silver cover.
Steam billows out from beneath the dome, carrying with it a mouth-watering array of savory aromas. Steamed rice sprinkled with caraway seeds, chick peas and onions in a pool of curry and topped with threads of saffron, ribbons of cucumbers and diced tomatoes with a yogurty glaze. On one side, a sweating thermos of something cold, and on the other, a napkin, bright blue with a large, scrawling yellow logo proclaiming Girasol.
The embroidered sunflower in the O stares back at me, daring me to connect it to something, but there's only one person who I've ever thought of when I see a sunflower, or a crocus, or any flower really, or the color yellow, or a lone person in the mall, or a patch of blue sky between the midtown skyscrapers, and that was a long time ago.
I'm dimly aware of having taken the platter, holding it like a trophy, but no, that was a long time ago, too. The intern is still standing there, watching me. "Thanks, Owen," I say by way of dismissal, and I set the dish unceremoniously on the host's desk.
Probably a promotional giveaway, and an effective one, I realize, reaching for the napkin. Indeed, on the back in the same scrawled font are the words a taste of sunshine, delivered above a phone number. But quite a lot of work for a promotion. Cloth napkins, real silverware, glass plates on silver platters? The service must cost a fortune when you actually order it.
Still, I'm not about to walk away from a (free!) gourmet delivered lunch in favor of wilted ham on rye, so I pick up the fork, which balances comfortably in my hand, no cheap cafeteria-issue silverware. The chick peas taste better than they look, which doesn't seem possible, and the mild rice offsets the bite of the curry. I twist the cap on the thermos, and pause a moment, caught off guard by the pinkish thick liquid inside. But I take a sip, trusting whatever mind concocted the chick peas to devise a complimentary beverage.
And then I freeze, my lips still on the rim of the thermos, my eyes wide and gaping, seeing only a crescent of pink, a rim of silver, and the unfocused studio beyond.
It's not a lassi. It's a smoothie.
It's a strawberry-bananna smoothie.
Slowly, gently, reverently, I place the thermos back on the platter. I can't take my eyes from it, as if I could somehow see the fingerprints, the traces of the woman who poured the drink, who set it on the tray.
"Owen," I say, but my voice doesn't carry, so I clear my throat around the clogging cold of the milk.
"Owen." Louder this time, but with such a timbre that a few members of the crew glance up. Owen regards me quizzically. "You said a woman gave you this. Can you describe her?"
The listening crewmembers trade smirks and winks, as if I've asked for details about a call girl rather than a caterer. But Owen brightens like he's been waiting for me to ask him this all week.
"Yessir, Mr. Borlock," he pipes. "She was—well I don't really know what she looked like, but she had on this crazy dress, made out of all kinds of cloth, like a quilt, and her hair all done up in pigtails with ribbons—I've never seen a grown woman in pigtails! And a big smile, and she said real softly to give you your order, and she winked at me like it was some kind of state secret, and then got into her truck, a big silver truck with that sunflower on the side..." he trails off, watching my face, which I imagine must be imploding and exploding at random intervals.
Whatever is happening on my face, though, can't compare to the calisthenics going on inside my chest. Just outside. She was just outside the studio.
I lick my top lip, still tasting the smoothie, and then grab the napkin to wipe off my strawberry-banana moustache. I freeze again, this time transfixed by the writing on the back.
"Emily," I bite out, "toss me that friggin' phone."