"So what is it that you do for a living?" her handsome blind date asked from across the table.
She watched as he sipped his 20-year-old scotch in anticipation of her response, and as she watched, she realized she didn't want to tell him because people always took her response the wrong way.
"I'm a face painter," she finally responded against her better judgment.
And there it was, that hint of a deriding smirk at the corner of his mouth. "It's not what you think," she quickly offered, but it was clear that his mind was made up, and therefore too late to correct her path.
She wouldn't bother pushing any further. It was far too late now.
She had been told that she would hit it off with this guy, without a doubt. That was obviously not going to happen now.
They spent the rest of the evening plodding through awkwardly trivial conversation before finally calling it a night.
When they were finally ready to part ways, he stood and extended a hand in a gesture of friendship, or perhaps remorse. It was clear that he liked her, but not her position in life.
She almost froze as she reached towards that hand, not because it was a representation of the finality of their date, but because of the small hint of green andp teeth poking out from under the cuff of his sleeve.
She recognized the face immediately because it was one of her own; a replica of a mural that she had painted her self.
She also recognized that the time for transparency was long passed.
They would part ways now and she would continue her quest. He, on the other hand, would never know how close he had come to his muse.
As far as she was concerned, that was his loss already.
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