The dashing artist was perplexed aplenty. Were his uber-skilled hands so beslimed, nay, begrimed? He shot back in his chair, and threw the woolgathering waiter a corner-eye dart. Was the tongs-wielder trying to scald him?
Our friend had asked us to dinner in a Chinese restaurant – her birthday (at thirty, she’s as lovely as a lily). Her happy, little crowd was lawyers, bankers and in-the-process-of-becoming-self-made people. She’d brought the artist along for the outré appeal.
When the steaming, tiny, white towels made their wont appearance, the manicure-haired artist was alarmingly out of it as to what to do with them, until he saw us take them in our own un-artistic hands. Kiz and I thought it so cute, after calming down from the stitches!