He was wearing a navy-blue imitation uniform with gold and silver braids. They were everywhere, on the cuffs, the lapels, running down the pants’ outer seams, which had a 10-inch bellbottom. There was no way in hell I was going to ask how many buttons.Next were the ribbons and medals. He had more than a North Korean General. The mixture of colors, shapes, and stripes was blinding. To top it off was his hat. Easily a foot-wide saucer cap, the same color as his uniform, with the same gold and silver braiding. If there was anything under the gold on the brim, I couldn’t see it.As he strutted towards me, I could almost hear the drums and fifes he must have heard in his mind. When he was about a yard from me, he stopped and put his fists on his hips. His head was tilted back, and with a sneer, on his lips, he looked me up and down.Nothing was said.A minute passed, and still, nothing was said.When a second minute passed, he lost patience, “Well?” He loudly proclaimed.“Well, what? It’s your. His blush and awkward smile communicated his enjoyment of her and his happiness to move on from the amazing experience.We celebrated at the Montmartre café sharing drinks with the artists who began a long day of drinking. One leaned over Mother and whispered. She kept saying no. Then she relented, telling him she'd come by in a couple days. He seemed satisfied, gave a quick kiss and returned to his compatriots. "He needs to finish the painting," Mother explained with a wink."Who is that?" asked my sister. When my mother told her, her eyes went wide."Do you want to meet him?" asked my mother."No. What would I say?" Show him your drawings," said Mother."They're like children's finger painting to him," said my sister. Mother grabbed them and went to the artist and unrolled them. The artists gathered around the drawings, pointing and commenting like debating art critics."Where's the gallery?" asked Mother.My sister wouldn't say. I told them. They nodded and continued appraising. We.
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