Overdue

This did not happen.

One Friday night, a man sat alone reading in a public library. He had gone to that place in the hope that the nearness of strangers would help stave off the lonely feeling that sometimes stole over him when he was on his own.

As he read, he became more and more frustrated by his novel – the characters were too shallow for his taste – and, with a snort of disgust, he put the book down on the table in front of him.

Unfortunately for the man, the noise of his snort, and the percussive sound that accompanied the putting down of the book, were above the level of a whisper, which was the normal threshold for noise in this library – even on Friday afternoons – and the librarian and several readers shushed him in unison.

But a woman – gentle, but with a twinkle in her eye – looked across the room, saw the book and the man, and understood instantly what had happened.

She stood silently and glided towards him like a swan upon a lake.

She motioned with her large eyes for the man to follow her; and follow her he did. Noiselessly they escaped the cloistered confines of that soulless place. Then, under a moonlit sky, they walked, laughing and twirling as they went; freedom and creation flowing through them.

Later, as a fair spring breeze caressed their cheeks, he lent her his coat, and they sat and talked until the early hours of the following day.

They parted feeling reborn, complete and free. And they vowed to meet again, which they did the next day, and every day forever after.

This happened.

A man in a library put down his senseless book with a bang and a snort. Those gathered near him, including some who were browsing through the open stack, expressed their wrath through loud tut-tuts and shushes. But one woman was not shushing or tutting; and, as his eyes lit upon hers, he felt a pang of love pierce him through. He left the library rather hurriedly, then, but returned the next day, and for many days thereafter, always in the hope that he would see her again. But he never did, and the feeling of not meeting her weighed upon him and added to his loneliness.

Connor Buys Coffee

Connor didn’t know anything about her, didn’t even know her name, but he knew this: she was the one for him. The first time he saw her it was if he’d been punched in the solar plexus: he was in love.

It had been a Tuesday.

He had seen her through the window of _La Petite Café_ as he walked past. She was standing behind the counter, but even from that distance Connor could feel her warmth; felt himself being drawn to her; and he knew that he was lost, lost, lost.

Connor thought of little else for the rest of the day. He drew a love-heart with an arrow through it and sat staring blankly at it.

She was perfect, he decided.

After that, Connor would find any excuse to walk past _La Petite Café_. She was always there, always smiling: a softness in a hard world.

She is gentle, Connor thought, she is kind and open; she is a balm for a weary soul.

These thoughts began to change Connor. The more he thought about her, the more he changed. Slowly, over many months, he became kinder and more tolerant. He didn’t realise it at the time, but his longing was transforming him.

One morning, as he was walking past the café, Connor made up his mind: he was going to go to talk to her. He slowly opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. The smell of coffee, and the sound of lively chatter, filled the air.

And there she was, but not as he’d expected: not as he had hoped. She was a life-sized cardboard cut-out; an advertisment for ‘Coffee Oké’.

Connor groaned.

“Are you alright there?” a waitress asked in a concerned tone.

“I…” said Connor and then stopped.

“I’ve seen you walking past,” the waitress continued. “I hoped you’d come in one day. Can I get you a coffee?”

And then she smiled at him, and Connor found himself smiling back.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Sideways Glance

This is a story about a young woman named Emma.

Emma was beautiful person with a gentle and flowing presence. She had a quietness about her, a stillness that some mistook for confidence. But Emma was far from confident: she was a shy person who had learned to love her own company.

One day Emma had an idea that both thrilled and terrified her: she would have lunch in the staff cafeteria. With great hesitation she made her way downstairs and joined the stream of people heading towards their midday meal.

The noise and bustle of the cafeteria was a swirling phantasmagoria. Emma took a slow breath and joined the queue of tray carrying diners. She paid for her meal and found a table where she could watch as the crowd of people flowed around her. She was in the flow, but she was not part of it.

And then Billy walked in. Billy was a scruffy individual. Emma couldn’t decide if his clothes were unfashionable or too fashionable, and his hair was desperately in need of a comb. He seemed unaware of these things; comfortable with himself; okay with his place in the world. Emma smiled; and something moved within her heart.

The next day Emma hurried to the cafeteria. Excitement at the prospect of seeing Billy replaced the trepidation she had felt the day before. He was unique; she knew this; she knew that he was like her in this way at least. But when Billy arrived he looked different: his clothes were neat, his hair was combed, and he had a slightly self-conscious air about him. Emma didn’t know that Billy had seen her the day before: his new look was for her.

Emma went to the cafeteria every day. She harboured the quiet hope that she would once again see the Billy of that first day. Instead she saw a Billy who was slowly becoming more vacuous, more self-obsessed. He had gym muscles and clothes that showed them off. Billy seemed to be making the transition from unselfconscious, to extremely self-conscious. And then, as if he were taking some kind of drug, he became aloof.

Oh, if only Emma had known that these changes were for her benefit, she would have pushed aside her own disquiet and approached Billy without delay. But she didn’t know, couldn’t know. And so Emma watched as the old Billy was annihilated, and a new, more generic Billy emerged.

Emma remembers the day Billy asked her if she would have lunch with him. The request seemed to come out of nowhere, as if it were some sudden whim of Billy’s. Emma was tempted to ask Billy why he had changed so much, but she was too shy to say anything, except that she wouldn’t. Billy made the same request the next day which struck Emma as arrogant, and she was more emphatic this time. She refused him and let him know there was no hope in her direction.

Emma didn’t see Billy for some time after that. He disappeared from the cafeteria and Emma desperately hoped that she hadn’t been too hard on him. She was mortified by the idea that she had hurt him and longed to set things straight.

It was some time before Billy remerged. Emma could see that he’d changed. He was scruffy and dishevelled. But there was a gravity about him: he seemed to have made peace with himself. Emma smiled when she saw him; and something moved within her heart. She waved at him as he entered the room, hoping to make amends, hoping to get to know him as he really was.

But Billy walked right past her.

Annihilation

The first time I saw Emma she was sitting at a table in the middle of the staff cafeteria. She was an eddy-current in a stream of mindless human activity. She was herself, and I was in love.

Emma was graceful and calm; stylish and elegant; carefree and sunny. She was perfect. To look at Emma was to see my own flaws, my own short-comings, in stark relief. I was suddenly and painfully aware of my own lack of style and grace. I was flawed and inadequate.

That night I went home and stuffed all but my best clothes into old boxes. My wardrobe was empty except for a two pairs of pants and three long-sleeved shirts.

Emma made me want to be a better person. I would see her almost every day, and every day I longed for her – to be a person she could love. I longed for her calm – longed to be at peace with myself.

The city library had an extensive section on meditation. I borrowed every book and practiced for an hour a day. I joined a gym and went six days a week. Other gym members would laugh at my intensity. “There’s no rush,” they would tell me. But there was.

For a year my life became very small, revolving around the gym and meditation classes. The occasional glimpse of Emma was all it took to keep my world turning.

My efforts started to pay off. My mind became expansive and focused, and I looked and felt much better than I had. But I began to realise what most people already know: I would never be perfect.

With this in mind I decided to talk to Emma.

I got up early and meditated for an hour, dressed slowly, and made my way to work. That morning’s work was a blur, and lunchtime arrived in a flash.

Emma was standing in the lunch queue when I arrived at the cafeteria. My ears were buzzing as I walked towards her. She looked uncomfortable as I approached, and when I asked her if she would go out with me she said that she wouldn’t.

I had spent too much time thinking about this to give up so easily, so I tried again the next day. This time Emma was more forceful, more emphatic. As she spoke my world began to crumble.

That night I sat on my bed and thought about Emma. I thought about how she’d shrunk away as I approached her. I thought about all I’d done to make her want me. I thought about what was left of my life and it didn’t seem like a lot. I sat there without blinking, my body numb, and a coldness forming in my heart.

I didn’t go to the gym after that and I gave up on meditation too. I would fall asleep in my clothes and go to work without changing. I seldom showered and the closest I got to cleaning my teeth was gargling gin. I didn’t shave. I lived on pizza and beer. I kept away from the staff cafeteria.

Time passed without measure, until one day I found myself doing something I hadn’t done for a long time: I was looking in the bathroom mirror. There was something different about me, a kind of gravity and seriousness that suited me. I wasn’t graceful or elegant, but I was something else: I was broken and still standing.

That day I decided to have lunch in the staff cafeteria. My hair was a mess, I was unshaven, and I’d slept in my clothes again.

Then something unexpected happened: Emma had seen me as I walked into the room, and as I moved near her, she smiled at me and waved. I was tempted to walk up to her and say hello.

But I didn’t.

Heart

Billy wanted to be the kind of easygoing person that everyone likes. He wanted to be cool: but he wasn’t.

Every morning Billy walked past _La Petite Café_ and saw all the happy customers reading or chatting or laughing, normal people who didn’t have a single care. Every morning Billy thought, “I’m going to go in there one day.”

One morning he awoke before sunrise and, after trying for some time to get back to sleep, he got out of bed and sat near a window watching the distant city lights. Today was the day.

It was a crisp morning in the middle of winter; the moon was hiding in the daytime sky and Billy was watching the café from across the road. His bloodless hands felt tingly and alien. His pulse thumped clearly in his left ear.

“Today is the day,” Billy told himself as he walked towards the café.

He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, pulled when he should have pushed: the door closed with a bang. Everyone turned to look at him. His face flushed and he felt a cold bead of sweat ran from his armpit.

This wasn’t how he thought it would be.

Once inside he shuffled to the counter his fists clenched tight. He scrunched up his toes too when the waitress asked him to repeat his order.

Billy collected his cup and walked with great caution towards an empty table. There was a pool of cold coffee in his saucer by the time he sat down. His face was burning; his hands cold, damp and shaky.

“Today is the day,” Billy repeated to himself as he pulled a diary and a pen out of his bag.

Turning to a blank page he wrote, “Amongst the Spheres,”

He stopped and frowned at what he’d written.

After some moments he added, “Darkness for light-years.”

He was pulled from his reverie by the laughter of a young woman at an adjacent table. She was engrossed in a book and didn’t seem to care that people were looking at her.

It was then that he realised that what he’d hoped for hadn’t come to pass. His release, his transformation, his metamorphosis, hadn’t taken place.

“Damn this fear,” he thought. “And now I’ve stayed too long; they’re waiting to get my table back.” He started to panic, flung his diary into his bag and marched out of the shop.

He didn’t see the girl with the book trying to catch his eye as he left.

If You Love Someone

“I’m falling in love with you.” I mumble.

She looks disappointed and says, “I told you–”

“I know.” I interject before she can continue; before I can’t continue. “You told me that you are a creature of the air; you need to be as free as a bird. Well, I’m down here, looking longingly up at you, hoping you will teach me to fly too.”

“I told you…” She repeats and her face is sad and serious.

“I know,” I say.

Tears fill my eyes. I’m walking without the memory of starting.

My car drives me home where I sit with my head on the steering wheel; thoughts tumbling like hyperactive acrobats.

My heart is bursting and sore and a burden.

“I spoke too soon.” I whisper to myself.

Finally I get out of the vehicle and walk towards my small apartment.

And there she is, standing by my front door.

“How did you get here so fast?” I ask.

“I flew.”

And then she laughs, so beautifully she laughs, and I’m crying and laughing and her arms are around my neck, her mouth tickling my ear.

“I’ll teach you to fly.”

And I pull her into my arms, trying to pull her in to my heart.

And there’s something strange about the feel of her back. And there’s a perfect white feather by her feet.