“God, you’re adorable.” Dean’s mellifluous voice from behind startled me. I didn’t stop working as I replied:

“Eh, it’s just the view.” I was several feet above his head, barefoot, in paint-stained jeans, with a big t-shirt that I think I accidentally stole from him tied in a knot at my waist.

“Well…” He laughed. “You ready for a break? I brought fries.”

I turned and grinned down at him. “Where from?”

“That little place next to the laundry mat on fourth.”

“Ooh, Little John’s? Great! I’ll be down in a sec…” I never realized how high up this part of the wall was.”

“Okay.” He shook his head. I think it amused him that I said things like that.

“Does it look all right?” I kissed his cheek and turned to look up at the wall above the bar where some of my favorite photos and movie posters had left clean squares of old yellow paint. Now slowly being covered by a rich, rust color.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I climbed onto the wide counter top where we always sat when the place was closed. “Too strong, overpowering, maybe. We could need more muted colors in here.”

“No,“ He joined me on the counter, “I like it. Just don’t use bright yellow or, you know, that sickly sixties shag green. And you’ll be all right.” He was unpacking the big brown bag. “Besides,” He said, popping a stray fry into his mouth. “Isn’t rust a muted color anyway? Damn, these are good.”

“I think it is, and aren’t they?”

“Still crunchy… Let’s see:” he reached deep into the rustling bag. “House marinara for you…”

“Ooh, you remembered. Thank you.”

“.. Uh, you’re welcome… and…” He searched, his brows scrunched and his left eye squinting.
“Ah-ha!“ He held up his prize. “Blue cheese-- for me.”

And so we sat on the for a few minutes, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon light that filled the half-renovated shop, marveling together at one of the greatest snacks ever to come from a potato.

“Hey,” he said at last, scraping the last of the blue cheese dressing from it’s little cup with an especially soft-looking fry. “What was that you were singing when I came in?”

“Ahhgh. You heard that?” I felt the warmth of embarrassment on the apples of my cheeks.

“Yes.” He grinned. “What was it, though? I didn’t recognize the song, and just when I was beginning to think I’d finally gotten a handle on your musical well-rounded-ness.”

“Well, luckily for me, I don’t think I’ve played that one for you before or I might have to worry that you didn‘t. Recognize it, I mean. Hey--” I exclaimed as he snatched the fry I’d been waving around-- hand talker that I am.

“It was going to get cold!” He laughed. “Or flung at me in the heat of some passionate statement. So I saved you the trouble.”

“You’re probably right, but anyway, it was called ‘Call Me When You Get This’. Kind of an old song now, but I just randomly got it in my head today.”

“Hm.” He swallowed a bite. “I liked it. You’ll have to pull it out for me. Did you ever take voice
lessons or anything?”

“No… Why?”

“Because you have a beautiful singing voice.”

“Ha, yeah?” Surprised… Who wouldn’t be? Most guys think their girlfriends are terrible singers. I suddenly couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to realize I was someone’s girlfriend.

“Of course. Why would I lie about it?”

“Um, because you don’t want me to punch you?”

“Yeah,” he laughed incredulously. “I'm not worried, babe.” He grabbed another potato. “I did mean it though, no offense: I was surprised when I walked in. Hadn’t heard you sing before, I guess. Really singing, not just along to the radio or something.”

“Well, anyway, thanks. Most of my practice came from singing backup for the Delaney gang back in the day. And you may be interested to know that I am even on a couple of their recordings.”

“No kidding." He nodded. "I’ll have to see if Darrin or any of them have any layin’ around for me.”