Richard
1400 Words
I pushed open the café door and held it with my shoulder while I dug through my handbag for my purse.
Your grandmother always complained that my handbags were too big.
She wasn’t wrong.
I’m fairly certain I carried half my life around with me.
By the time I found my wallet, the door was already closing.
I reached for it.
So did someone else.
“Oh—”
We both stopped.
“You first,” he said.
“No, please.”
“I insist.”
I laughed.
“You don’t even know whether I’m coming in or going out.”
He looked at the door.
“That’s…”
He smiled to himself.
“…actually a good point.”
“I am coming in.”
“Well, that makes me look slightly less foolish.”
“Slightly.”
He held the door anyway.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It almost was.
I walked inside.
He walked in behind me.
Mr. Harrison looked up from behind the counter.
“You’re late.”
“I know.”
He looked past me.
“So are you.”
“I know,” the man behind me answered.
Mr. Harrison sighed the way only people who’d known you long enough could sigh.
“I suppose neither of you planned on eating before three o’clock.”
“I planned to,” I said.
“You planned to,” he corrected.
“There’s a difference.”
The man behind me laughed.
Not at me.
With me.
I remember thinking…
That’s a nice laugh.
Isn’t it funny what stays with you?
He stepped aside to let me pass first.
I thanked him again out of habit.
He nodded once, as though that was the end of the conversation, and wandered towards the counter while I found my place in the queue.
I remember thinking he was unusually… unhurried.
Not slow.
Just unhurried.
Like the rest of us were racing through the day and nobody had told him he was supposed to.
I’d always envied people like that.
People who never seemed to be checking the time.
Mr. Harrison looked up when it was finally my turn.
“The usual?”
“The usual.”
He frowned.
“You skipped yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And the day before.”
“I know.”
“Your mother would be disappointed.”
“My mother doesn’t know.”
He gave me a look.
“The woman knows everything.”
“…That’s a fair point.”
He reached for a plate before stopping halfway.
“I’m afraid we’re out.”
I blinked.
“Out?”
“The lunch special.”
“But it’s only…”
I looked up at the clock.
It was nearly three.
“…Never mind.”
“I can make you something else.”
“As long as it’s edible.”
“I’ve always been offended by how low your expectations are.”
“They’ve kept me alive.”
He laughed and disappeared into the kitchen.
I moved aside to wait.
There were only three people left in the café now.
A woman by the window reading a book.
An elderly couple sharing a slice of cake.
And…
Him.
He was sitting by the window with a notebook open in front of him.
Not reading.
Not writing.
Just staring at the same page with a pen resting between his fingers like he’d forgotten why he’d picked it up.
I don’t know why I noticed.
Maybe because everyone else looked busy.
He looked…
Thoughtful.
As if he’d wandered so far into his own head that the rest of the café had quietly disappeared.
Then he caught me looking.
Not dramatically.
Not one of those moments books love to exaggerate.
He simply looked up.
Our eyes met.
I did what every sensible twenty-one-year-old woman would’ve done.
I immediately looked somewhere else.
It would’ve ended there if Mr. Harrison hadn’t returned balancing my plate with one hand.
“Here we are.”
He looked around the café.
Every table was occupied.
Except one.
He pointed towards the empty chair opposite the man by the window.
“You don’t mind sharing, do you?”
I looked at the chair.
Then at the man.
He looked up again, almost as if he’d heard his cue.
Instead of waving me over or pretending not to notice, he simply moved his notebook aside to make room.
A small gesture.
Nothing more.
Funny…
How many important things begin as nothing more than a small gesture.
Mr. Harrison set my plate down before looking between the two of us.
“Don’t let him fool you.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
He nodded towards the man across from me.
“He looks quiet.”
The man sighed.
“Please don’t.”
Mr. Harrison ignored him.
“He only looks quiet until you ask him a question.”
“I feel like I should be worried.”
“You should.”
“I’ve said about twelve words.”
“And somehow you’ve already made it sound like too many.”
Mr. Harrison laughed.
“I’ll leave you two to it.”
He disappeared before either of us could stop him.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
The man looked towards the kitchen, then back at me.
“I’d like it on record…”
He smiled apologetically.
“…that I had nothing to do with that introduction.”
I smiled.
“I wasn’t blaming you.”
“I’m relieved.”
“You looked ready to defend yourself.”
“I’ve learnt it’s safer.”
“From him?”
“Mostly.”
I glanced towards the kitchen.
“I can see why.”
Another quiet settled between us.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
He opened his notebook again.
I picked up my fork.
For a while, the café carried on around us.
The elderly couple shared another slice of cake.
Someone turned the page of a book.
Mr. Harrison argued with somebody in the kitchen about burnt toast.
I found myself looking at the notebook again.
This time I could see the page.
It wasn’t filled with words.
It was sketches.
A pair of hands wrapped around a coffee cup.
Mr. Harrison drying a glass.
The elderly gentleman smiling at his wife.
Quick pencil lines.
Nothing elaborate.
But somehow…
They felt alive.
“You can look.”
I looked up.
“I’m sorry?”
“My notebook.”
He turned it slightly towards me.
“You’ve been trying very hard not to.”
Heat crept into my cheeks.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
He slid the notebook a little closer.
“Go on.”
I looked down properly this time.
“These are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“You draw people a lot.”
“They’re interesting.”
“They’d probably disagree.”
“They usually do.”
I laughed.
He smiled, then closed the notebook.
“I draw while I wait.”
“I thought you were writing.”
“So did I.”
I frowned.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
He picked up his coffee, took a sip and paused.
“It’s cold.”
“You’ve only just realised?”
“Apparently.”
“You were very focused.”
“I usually am.”
“On drawing?”
He looked down at the notebook for a moment.
“I said I was waiting.”
“And?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I got distracted.”
There was something so matter-of-fact about the way he said it that I didn’t think to ask what had distracted him.
Instead, I looked back at my lunch.
It suddenly seemed very interesting.
“I should probably introduce myself,” he said after a moment.
“I was beginning to think we’d become regular strangers.”
That made me laugh.
“I’m Priscilia.”
He held out his hand.
“Richard.”
I shook it.
His handshake wasn’t memorable because it was firm.
Or gentle.
Or lingering.
It was memorable because, years later, I could still remember exactly where we were sitting when it happened.
Funny…
Sometimes life announces itself with fireworks.
Other times…
It simply asks if the seat opposite you is taken.
- Writer
