“Totally. I’m all about vintage. Are you buying that one?”
The young guy has the look of a hipster. People often use the moniker with disdain, but I’m a fan. Where hipsters congregate, there’s usually excellent beer and tasty food trucks. Plus, they’re bringing back an interest in nutritious, unprocessed ingredients, which helps with my business.
“Oh, no. I wish. Not in the budget right now. Besides, I have three beauties at home I haven’t touched in ages. Can’t make a good argument to buy more until I get back in the playing habit.” Charlie sets the guitar back on the display stand. “But whoever adds this one to their collection is a lucky SOB. They’ll have some envious glares when they bring it out onstage.” My fake husband runs one more loving gaze over the instrument, then lifts his head and finds us all watching him. “Hey! Sorry, are you ready to go? Didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Don’t apologize!” Violet waves a hand. “Love to hear a man compliment beautiful craftsmanship.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the almost-imperceptible tightening of Manuel’s mouth. I wonder if Violet was aiming a well-aimed dig at the guy or if he just doesn’t like it when his client goes around complimenting men.
Interesting. If we weren’t in a business relationship, I might try asking her about it.
Violet and I have very different personalities, but I still enjoy whenever we have sessions together. There’s an ease between us that doesn’t happen often with my clients.
Maybe that’s her habit of saying outrageous things.
Or maybe I’m just starved for companionship. I’d be lying if I said having Charlie around my house is horrible. I shouldn’t get used to him. Then I might come to depend on him, and that’s a whole bucket of issues I’ll have to deal with when we peace out in a year.
“You don’t have to leave,” I offer to Charlie. “We’re just going food shopping. You should stay here. Play with all the toys.”
“Instruments,” Violet corrects with a playful prod to my side.
I smirk her way before meeting Charlie’s eyes again. Or at least attempt to. He’s currently gazing around the place, as if already imagining his hands on every guitar in the shop.
Lucky guitars.
Shut up, horny brain.
“You don’t mind?”
“Nope. I’ll text you when we’re done and come back to pick you up then.”
Fifteen minutes later, Violet, Manuel, and I enter an organic grocery store. I don’t demand my clients eat organic food. As a dietitian, I try to work with realistic expectations, and if they don’t want to go to the more expensive grocery store, that’s their choice. But Violet let me know she’s all organic. To the hipster market we go.
“You really think with the right diet, I could be as strong as you?” The country singer glances at my biceps.
I get a sudden flush of pleasure. With my shorter stature, people rarely notice my strength.
Not until they see me go a few rounds in the gym or get into a brawl.
Not that I brawl often.
Hearing the observation from Violet threatens to inflate my ego.
“Diet and the right exercise. Yes. No doubt in my mind.”
“Well then”—the A-lister makes sure her hat and wig are in place, then grabs a cart—“lead the way. Pour all the magic food in my cart. Please and thank you.”
Her supplicant tone has me smirking. No way are we going that route. People can buy all the healthy food they want, but if they don’t eat a bite, then it doesn’t matter.
“You point out the things you would normally buy. We’ll work from there.”
Over the next half hour, we talk through Violet’s eating habits. There are some items I switch out for healthier versions with similar tastes. Food that I encourage her to consume more of for the benefit to her muscles and items I suggest as occasional treats rather than staples of her diet.
Somewhere along the line, Violet starts treating the experience like a game, picking random items and asking me yes, no, or switch.
Then I test her.
All the while, Manuel is our silent shadow.
