Chapter 8 Fiona's

No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true. Hawthorne

Fiona’s

He held the screen door of the coffee shop open, quietly:

“àpres vous.”

He set his things down on the first chairs available- large turquoise comfortable affairs, and we waltzed towards the counter and into the line up. Tea in large containers, for selling I imagined, were lined up agains the wall and he stood in front of them. We talked about his monochrome painting that was apparently too angsty for me to truly understand. The lady working had periwinkle eyes and an easy humour. Short dark hair framed an older face with smile lines and crows feet speaking to perhaps a harsher past than now presented itself at the counter. They chatted as old friends. There were about five or six different coffee makers on the long counter partitioning the kitchen from a hallway leading back to the bathroom. He leaned on his elbow into the counter, leonine, graceful even stationary and began asking after the brews across from us. He looked at me briefly, eyes probing, wondering after which coffee I was interested in. 

“Do you have any normal coffee?” I couldn’t help myself and the statement sprang from my lips. He chuckled.

“Well aren’t you adventurous,” 

The lady from the back chimed in:

“Yes, we have a wonderful Caribbean right here,” 

“Perfect,” I smiled, still embarrassed on my initial ignorant comment. I was standing beside him, feeling like stranger as he discussed a train of thought I had to intention of keeping up with, with the barrister. I quickly kissed his forehead before excusing myself -I think my public display set him a little off kilter. 

When I returned, he placed in front of me a piece of banana bread and a blue berry muffin. I took the banana bread.  

We settled into our previously chosen seats and brought out our books. I am a fast reader, much faster than him I dare say, and began the Beautiful and the Damned quickly, looking up every so often to steal a glance at his pretty, for lack of a better word, blue eyes and the serious set of his mouth as he read. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald was wondering. Every line he wrote seemed to have an undercurrent of sarcasm. I often found myself laughing aloud, though quietly. at the sardonic tone the novel presented. We talked on and off, him and I, about a lot of things -but mostly about nothing.

At my request, we briefly traded books, I needed to share with him Fitzgerald’s understated humour, and I wanted to see where he was in the Picture of Dorian Grey. My favourite character from that novel is Lord Henry. He stands for everything terrible and speaks with such a mind to prove his point. He is often correct as cynics and selfish people are, about the nature of humans. His character was evil, but in the most subdued way and I rejoiced in Wilde’s ability to make him so dastardly but likeable. When we were discussing Dorians impending marriage to Sybil, he wondered as to the change in social conduct, how it had flip flopped and now a women could have a man or any men at her disposal whereas back then, men were sought after, surrounded by their choice of women. I explained that I thought the patterned progressed from a socio-economic standpoint, buried deeply in the fact that women can now vote and own property for themselves and no longer “require a man” for any specific legal qualifications. Pride and Prejudice, my favourite book, a leading example. The first line itself borrow me resource with which to speak. I wondered how this hadn’t been very clear to him already as it seemed almost common sense. We traded books back and continued to read. Only interrupted when he talked of the fashions of Europe and intermittently held the door for people holding too many things. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I read on, never fully focused on my book, lightly tracing the top of my coffee cup, drinking on occasion. Sometimes I think he was copying me.

He said, since he’d be going to France for four months- give or take- so he should probably learn to smile. Adamant that he didn't know how, fervently arguing that it wasn’t an innate and oh so human reflex. Photos documenting his exchange prompted a more photogenic boy than he thought himself able to present.

“In order to understand this you will have to know Ryan Gosling and have seen the movie Drive. There’s this thing he does, where he looks down and then when someone calls his name he looks up and smiles. It perfect for above two seconds and I guess thats all you need for a photo.” He preformed the action while describing it and was completely almost correct in his conjecture. The tightness around his eyes vanished when he first looked up, reappearing instantaneously however when he became self conscious again. He was adorable as he first looked up; however, this was nothing. It was a shadow of the smile glimmering on his lips when he told me about his family the night before- and however incommensurate these may seem, it was nothing to the smirk alighting his lips I’d witnessed that morning when I’d kissed his skin where the cheek, softly whispering good morning.

“You’ll be back around, you said you would”

“Yeah to party on Saturdays, or will I go clubbing in my part of the city instead…”

“I can’t picture you clubbing”

“I’ve been to a club”

“I don’t consider that bar a club, just a really large house party. This isn’t a huge city.” He chuckled and then digressed “I have seen you make out with some in at our friendly neighbourhood bar”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Your boyfriend I suppose. I never got the whole PDA thing. Some things are much better kept private.” I didn’t even know him then.

He’d emptied his coffee cup and was standing to get more, asked me if I wanted any. I said yes and he dipped, giving me a light kiss on the lips. I watched after him, puzzled. 

We had the smallest of arguments about my roommate who deeply liked him. I thought myself a bad friend for hanging out with him, and I told him everything I had done to avoid him. The heart wants, right? The tumultuous nature of our relationship and the opinion of my friends  that omission was equatable to lying, and I hated lying, had caused our random rendevouz to become rather public. He almost seemed angry, saying his enjoyed his private life to be private. I think we was hiding something. He had some need to keep his relationship with me a secret; perhaps from other pursuits or to keep himself open to interest of other kinds. I am worth more than that, but I did not say anything. I was leaving for the summer, and this place was his happy memory place. Who was I to wreck that? I apologized, sincerely. Placing my nose firmly back into my book. 

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

“Yes.”

We both exited the car. He leaned around the back and pulled me close. 

“So I’ll see you again before you leave”

“Umm. I guess.” I was confused, I thought the last bit of coffee can’t gone over well- this should have been our goodbye. Maybe someday I’d see him again. He kissed me. Then received a phone call. Using this as an excuse, he said:

“Have a great day,” or something generic of those sorts, quickly walking away back to his house. I got in my car and drive away. A few minutes later I received a message that read something akin to this:

 Sorry about the speed in which I left, I’m terrible at goodbyes and left so quickly so as turn a certain that was not our last haha I hope you understand, in an odd way.