The meet cute

Do you ever think about how that tick — a bouncing knee, biting lip or clicking fingers — became a part of you? When did you notice it? Where did you pick it up? We all have one, and if you can’t think of yours, ask a friend — a close one, someone who has seen you in every situation. Good, bad and ugly. My brother used to bite the top of his finger; I used to suck my thumb. But we’ve both grown out of those ticks now. Although the evidence is still there to see in his scars and my buck teeth. It’s been a while since I’ve spent enough time with him to pick up his current habit. He’s got long hair now, so maybe he’s nibbling on a stray lock or twirling it with his finger. I’m sitting at a table, spinning a pen between my fingers, staring at empty lines. Today was supposed to be the day I put pen to paper; I felt it when I woke up. And my certainty only grew stronger as the hours passed. I saw new characters and witty lines.

The city sparkled and stressed in the wind. Christmas tends to do that — at least it does here. I suppose it does in most places, as long as it’s a place that celebrates it with pine trees, carols and quickly forgotten gifts. Every shop has gone to some length to remind you of the festive season, whether it’s a wreath hanging on the door, a Santa hat on a mannequin’s head or just a few snowflakes sprayed on windows. But you don’t need any of that to know it’s Christmas. All you have to do is look around — it’s written on every face. Red cheeks, folded foreheads, rolling eyes. Although, I suppose at least two of those signs could be symptoms of the heat that gathers in every building this time of year. One minute you’re leaning into the wind, holding your hood in place, and then you’re unzipping every piece of warm clothing. Anyway, I’m getting derailed. That’s one of my skills — derailment.

There was this one guy who was perfect for my protagonist. Mysterious, handsome, unsuspecting. He sat outside a café, spitting at Mother Nature as he rolled a roll-up like it was a breezeless summer’s day. A half-drunk cappuccino was turning to ice in his mug. He sipped it without an ounce of displeasure. Naturally, he lit the roll-up at the first attempt. It’s hard to get a measure of someone when they are seated, and it is even trickier when they’re lounging as they sit. But he must have been at least six foot two. He had a couple of tattoos running up his neck and a couple along his long fingers. Little plugs filled his ears, and his head bobbed calmly to whatever song played. A friend came up to him as he started on another rollup.

“How are you, my friend?” he asked in a voice equal parts old-timey and perfectly modern.

“Argh, you know. Same old,” his friend replied, not nearly as eloquently. The tattooed man glanced at the space beside him and then looked back at his friend. His friend took the hint as a dog chases a ball.

“Cigarette?” He was already rolling one for his guest because that is what he felt like, even though they were both sitting outside a café, on a bare wooden bench. Or maybe it was just his tick.

“Nah, man. I’m trying to quit.”

He looked at his friend after he’d finished with an expression that was neither disappointed nor glad. It was a look that didn’t offer an opinion. He finished rolling, pulled out a silver cigarette tin and slipped the fresh roll-ups into their places.

“How was the date? I hear you got back late.”

“It was nice. Pretty normal stuff.” There was a smirk on his lips now — he knew how desperate his friend was to hear some details. He took a final sip of frozen coffee, returned his cup and stepped back into the wind.

“You off?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“In this weather?”

The tattooed man looked at the sky. He was probably a little taller than six-two.

“Why not.” He was already walking.

The tattooed man. I look at it for a while, still spinning my pen in my fingers. It starts hailing outside. Hail always seems like the end of the world when it arrives. It is biblical. My pen stops, and I cross out the three words spoiling my blank page.

A little later that same afternoon, I found my leading lady. She was perfect — not for me, you understand, but for the Tattooed man. She was my height in trainers. In heels, she’d look clear over my head. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not crazy about women who are taller than me. And it’s not to say they aren’t beautiful — some are notoriously beautiful. I guess you can pin it down to insecurities on my part; nevertheless, tall women aren’t for me. As I was saying, she was perfect for him, not me.

I was in the bookshop when I saw her reaching for something on the top shelf. Her coat was folded in the crook of her arm and hanging neatly. Blue jeans hugged her thighs, and her T-shirt must have shrunk in the wash. I watched her out of the corner of my eye for a minute or two, wondering if she was indeed the perfect woman. Then, as quickly as a dog yelps when you stand on its tail, I saw the scene unfold before me. The Tattooed man is browsing in the same section.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” she’s at her limit, stretching on tiptoes, but she gets a finger to the top of the spine, leans the book forward and grabs it. The Tattooed man watches her a few paces away, contemplating the arch of her back the way one might the work of a great artist. She senses his eyes; they’re burning a hole in her spine.

“Enjoying the view?” she turns and returns the glare. But she’s caught a little off guard by what she sees. Her cheeks feel warm, and her eyes widen. She heard the voice of a much softer man — someone who would crumble under the pressure of her question. But he isn’t that. He is as calm as ever, as though he is the first few pages of a novel.

“Only fools don’t enjoy a beautiful view when it is in front of them,” he says, returning his attention to the shelves. She doesn’t know what to do with that.

People aren’t supposed to say things like that in real life. It isn’t fair — he has been practising lines, and she’s left to improvise. Her lips part, and a thin pearlescent line fills the gap. A witty line is on its way, or is it? A moment later. She looks at the shelf he’s looking at, then at his feet, then back to his face. All the while, he doesn’t fidget. That’s remarkable don’t you think? Whenever you’re being watched, all you want to do is fidget; that’s where half our ticks come from. It’s as though every piece of skin has chosen that moment to ich. I used to fidget so much back in school when a girl looked at me that people started to think I had a condition. But I don’t, I’m just incredibly awkward. Anyway, this story isn’t about me. I did warn you, though, I’m the king of derailments.

A couple of minutes pass, and neither of them moves. They are both happy standing a few feet away, pretending to browse the shelves. At least I know she is — I’m not one hundred percent certain about our protagonist. But he looks convincing. She picks a book from a lower shelf and starts reading the blurb. Que the meat in this awkwardly romantic sandwich. He’s the type of character that is unanimously hated. And that is a shame because we all have more in common with the morally grey slim balls than with the sharp-talking, quick-witted beauties of this world.

“That’s a good one,” the meat says, and she looks up. She’s smiling, but there’s no missing the disappointment swimming in her eyes.

“Really? I’ve heard good things, but it is very old,” she says, and the Tattooed man is paying attention now. Jealousy works like gravity, pulling his head to the side. Jealousy is a weird emotion, appearing out of the blue just as much as it does when we expect it. Even in its smallest doses, it has gravity.

“That’s never a bad thing. The older, the better.” The meat says, stepping across the girl. He’s reaching for something on the penultimate shelf. But he’s having trouble getting to it without leaning all over her. Which I suppose was all a part of the plan.

“Let me,” she says, taking a step away. This time, she doesn’t have to resort to tiptoes. The Tattooed man enjoyed it just as he did the first time.

“Now, this is a good one,” the meat takes the book from her grip. He flicks through the pages quickly. It’s a display; he is saying look at all these words; I’ve read them all.

“What’s it about?” the girl takes it back and inspects the blurb.

“It’s a complicated one. But well worth the time. At the heart, it’s a thriller, but one of the best.”

“I’m not really a thriller person.” The meat looks a little beaten up by that.

“But it is a real classic. Everyone who likes fiction needs to read this. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“But it’s 700 pages, and I’m more into romance. I don’t think I will finish it.” She slots it back into place.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy it for you, then you don’t have to feel bad if you don’t finish it.” The meat is leaning over her again, trying to free the spine with his finger and trying harder to not look clumsy. She steps back again. The Tattooed man wanders to another shelf. Her eyes follow him as he walks away. Now he’s the one being watched.

“Thank you,” the words leave her lips before she knows it, forced out by habit. “But it’s fine. I’ll never read it. Don’t waste your money.” You would have thought the meat would have been put out by that, as though a pair of fingers yanked him out of the sandwich and threw him on the floor where he belongs. But he is anything but. He turns the book over and looks at the price.

“Well, in that case. How about a drink? I have thirteen ninety-nine burning a hole in my pocket.” That was pretty smooth, especially from a man who looks as rough as a piece of ham on the floor. Or it would have been if he didn’t reek of sliminess. His eyes suddenly lose all their caution and begin feasting on the view — it’s just as good from the front.

“Ha,” she can’t help but laugh. God, I think most people would have done the same. “No thanks,” two cold syllables to the heart, and you can see the meat begin to squirm.

“Okay. Well, another time maybe,” the meat says and scurries away. The pressure was certainly too much for him. There’s a brief pause in the shop — everyone is waiting for the next page to turn. The doors close behind the meat, and they — our leading man and lady — both look up. She smiles first.

The Tattooed man returns to his original spot just a few feet behind her and resumes his browsing.

“He’s right, you know,” he’s reading the blurb of a new release. It has a purple cover with two old-fashioned telephones and a title neatly designed between them.

“What?” She turns to look at him, and he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“That book is a classic. It’s romantic, too.”

“Sure it is.”

“I’m just saying. But don’t ask me to buy it for you. You’ve missed that opportunity.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.” he puts the book down and steps closer. Time slows as he steps past her and reaches for another book on the shelf. She doesn’t mind him invading her personal space.

“You’ll like this more, though.”

“I’ve read it.”

“And?”

“It’s one of my favourites.”

“One of mine, too.” A smile breaks on her lips, but she squashes it. People are weird. We try our hardest to be happy, but often — when we are — we don’t want to show it.

All of a sudden, another girl comes in. She’s beautiful like a movie star — she doesn’t belong here. Beauty like hers should be hanging in a gallery or on a sunkissed horizon. It’s been raining outside, and the ends of her hair drip water on her jumper. She sees him first and waves as she makes her way to the corner where our two leads are.

“Oliveria!” she is excited and threatened. He turns his head a fraction. It’s a move you would never notice unless you had been watching him all day. Not that I watched him all day. He just kept showing up in my line of vision.

“Hey,” he says, greeting her with two soft kisses on each cheek. The girl with the book and the blue jeans takes a step back. Maybe that’s her tick — a subtle one-step retreat. She looks faint; the air has left her alone in that quiet bookshop corner.

“Who’s your friend?” the starlet tucks her dripping hair behind her ear.

“Anna. Anna Karenina,” she says, pronouncing each syllable clearly. She wants to make sure he will remember her name.

“We just met. Anna needed some help with the top shelf.” It’s his turn to smile now.

“Well, Anna, lovely to meet you. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to steal Oliveira for a minute.” she tugs on his arm.

“What’s up?” he doesn’t move an inch.

“Do you have my earrings? I think I left them in your coat on the way home.”

“You mean these.” they are nipped between index and thumb. Gold and diamond — just what you’d expect from a starlet.

“Thanks. Maybe we could do it again sometime,” she says, pulling herself up and planting a kiss on one of the tattoos. He breathes in slowly; it’s not a sigh — it has the same message.

“Maybe. I’ll let you know,” he says, and the starlet slips from his arm and floats out the door. Everyone watches her leave — even with wet hair and an oversized winter coat, she is something to behold. I say everyone, I mean everyone bar, one. I bet you can guess.

“She seems nice,” Anna says, resuming her browsing.

“She is. Anyway, Anna Karenina. I should be going,” he pauses. “Thanks for the view.”

“Ha,” there it is again. That laugh. So dry and cutting. “See you around, Oliveria.”

“God, I hope so,” he walks past me and out the door.

Now, you can’t tell me that isn’t worth a novel. I can see it now: a slow-burn romance with a good dollop of will-they-won’t-they running throughout. At some stage, you will think the starlet has our leading man’s heart. Maybe they even get engaged. But when all hope is lost, our two lovers will meet in that same bookshop corner. She’ll be reaching for a book, waiting for him to ask her if she needs help. But he won’t ask because he is enjoying the view. And that’s when they’ll know for sure that they have loved each other ever since they set eyes on one another.

But I’ll never write it; it’s just all too perfect. No one wants to read a perfect story. I need an edge, some off-the-wall twist. My fingers are cramping from turning my pen between them, so I stop, rip the page out and throw it in the bin — recycling, of course. I guess I’ll have to keep looking. Sooner or later, I’ll find something worthwhile to write.

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