Story Submitted by James:
Monica had posted examples of her artwork to her profile, and that's what attracted me to her in the first place. She did a lot in pencil and charcoal, and her work reminded me of M. C. Escher. One photo was of her posing in front of a line of her framed works up at a gallery, and she looked so pretty that I had to send her a message.
She wrote back, very into the fact that I was very into her work. She mentioned that her art was still up at the gallery in a nearby city. I said that I'd want to see it sometime, and so we arranged a lunch date.
The plan was to have lunch, take a walk, and end up at the gallery.
We sat down to lunch, and I noticed something unusual about her at once: she talked with her hands. A lot. She'd wave them as if she was casting a spell, no matter what she said.
"So, how are you?" were her first words to me, and the motion she included with that statement looked kind of like she was climbing an invisible rope.
"I'm fine. How are you?"
She said, "I'm really busy. In the middle of two portraits." With these sentences, she moved her hands as if she was hand-tossing salad.
"Who are the portraits of?"
"Clients," she said, doing something similar to jazz hands, "One is a friend of a friend, the other found me through the gallery." She finished the statement with a motion as if she was playing the drums.
I pointed to her hands. "Sign language?"
She shook her head. "No, I just talk with my hands. I'm an artist." She flapped her hands around as if she was a seal.
"Being an artist means talking with your hands?"
She pushed her hair back, wiggled her fingers and said, "Yes. At least, for me."
I picked up the menu, she did the same, and I looked over the place's specials. I said, "If you didn't have breakfast, they have really good brunches here."
She put her menu down, physically put it down, waved her hands like she was kneading dough, and said, "That's good to know," then picked her menu back up.
"You're kidding," I said, "You had to put your menu down to talk?"
She put the menu back down, moved her hands as if she was fanning herself, and said, "I thought it was the polite thing to do."
She picked the menu back up.
"Okay," I conceded.
She put the menu down and waved a single hand in the air, "Thank you."
I said, "So whenever someone talks to you, you put down what you're doing to flap your hands around?"
She put her menu down. That time, her hands moved as if she was cutting meat. "That's why I don't allow visitors when I'm working. Nothing would ever get done."
I nodded, waited for her to pick up her menu again, and asked, "How does anything get done in the first place? Doesn't moving your hands around constantly affect your quality of life?"
She put her menu down and did a sort of drumroll/jazz hands/jerking off combo thing. "Is this going to be a problem?"
I couldn't stifle a laugh, she caught it, and I believe that that was the moment in which I lost any sort of chance with her whatsoever. I didn't bring it up anymore, and when she made up some excuse to leave after lunch, I didn't cry foul.
Story Submitted by James: