Piece of a story I'm working on

It started just like any other day off. And very rarely did he ever have one of those.

It was a surprisingly lovely day for London in March. He loved the hustle and bustle of the streets. It was always this uncertain thrill--- you were always in the middle of so many people just walking down the street---a press from all sides. It made you feel almost safe. But that was a cruel illusion, as one is never truly safe when there are so many different people made to co-inhabit the same environment.

It was when he turned the corner to the little coffee shop that his life changed.

Normally, he noticed no one in the crowd. It was just a living, swarming mass enveloping him. But she was not moving. She looked very out of place, as a matter of fact. She was wearing sandals and a summer dress with a parka over it. And the thing that struck him like a brick falling from the sky was the sign she was holding. It was a piece of cardboard ripped from a cheap box and scrawled on with black magic marker, like beggars usually have. But written upon the make-shift marquee was the sentence: “Save your coins; I want CHANGE.”

This stopped him dead in his tracks. Never before had he seen anyone so boldly thought provoking, but so widely ignored. Hardly a soul glanced her way, and those who did notice her, skirted around her, as if they didn’t have the time for deep thought-- or maybe even feared it.

Normally, he’d have hid in the coffee shop and watched her for a little while, working up the nerve to talk to her. The problem was, she was standing in front of his refuge.

This left him confronted with a though decision; he could turn around, head home, watch the telly, and wonder what might’ve happened if he’d have talked to her, or-- he could take a lesson in boldness from her, and ask her into his café, for a cup of coffee. But the inertia of fear left him standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people rushing off, able to continue on with their busy days without wondering about the beggar of peace.

He was close to turning around and going home when he noticed her noticing him. This unexpected turn of events left him with no choice. He walked up the street to where she was standing a yard away.

“I’m glad somebody’s paying attention.” she said in a wonderfully husky voice. Greta Garbo minus the accent.

“Yeah, well…Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” he asked, motioning to the café behind them.

“Sure.”

He lead her into the café full of hip young poets and university students and painters smudged with colour, the aroma inviting, the music (something indie) low but audible.

They found a table and ordered.

“This is a cute little place.” She held her mug under her chin, the steam rising from the cup, upset with every word she breathed. “Where’d you find it?”

“I uh, I own it, actually.”

“At your age? You can’t be older than twenty.”

“Twenty-six.”

She squinted a bit, assessing the situation. “You’re kinda small for your age.” her tone wasn’t condescending, but matter-of-fact. If she was offending him, she was unaware.

“Gee, thank you!” he said with a chuckle that wasn’t meant to sound so forced.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I have a habit of not thinking before I speak.”

“Really? You struck me as someone who weighed her words rather wisely.” he remarked, nodding to the sign she’d propped against the wall next to them.

She laughed. “It’s been a slow day. I figured this would be a more constructive way to spend it rather than with a bottle of Marlow.”

“What’s your name?’

“Maya.”

“Maya?”


“Yeah. In Hindu philosophy, Maya was an illusion, often personified as a maiden.”

“So you might not even be here.”

“Exactly why my mother named me that. She had a somewhat twisted since of humor. What she didn’t take into consideration was that not everyone appreciates good Hindu philosophy.”

He laughed. “Your mother sounds like quite the character.”


“Yeah, she was…uh…she was somethin’” there was a hint of pain behind her words that made him instantly regret his flippant remark. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Julien”

“Julien? That sounds a little…feminine.”

“It’s not! It’s… androgynous.” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Yeah, androgynous leaning more towards feminine.”

“Wow! I’m impressed. Most of the girls I date wouldn’t----”


“Is this a date?” she interrupted.

“Did I say that?” he sounded genuinely shocked.


“Inadvertently.”

“There goes that vocabulary again.”

“This is getting awkward.”

“You noticed that too?”

“You have the bluest eyes I think I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, whose the dominate male in this?”

“You tell me Mr. Androgyny.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. So, how long have you been here?”

“The side walk, or London?” She asked as the waitress poured her second cuppa.

“London. Either.”

“What time is it? Two? I’d only been out there an hour before you decided to chat me up. I’ve only been in London about three months.”

“Why London?”


“It wasn’t Kentucky. I needed to get away.”

“From?”
“My friends.”


He gave her a weird look.

“It’s not how it sounds. I’m not a bitch, I swear.”

He chuckled.


“It’s just that all my life, I’ve surrounded myself with people who needed me. I mean, really needed me. I just got tired of being so damn accessible. I’m still there for them, you know, like I said, I’m not a total bitch. But now I don’t have people knocking on my door at three a.m. or perpetually crashing on my couch.”

“It’s understandable.”

“You want to go back to my place?”

“That was blunt!”

“I didn’t say anything was going to happen, it’s just that this whole coffee shop date, if that’s what we’ve concluded this is, is just too generic for my taste.” She leaned in over the table “Whaddya say?”


“Sure, I guess.”

He called for the check and was a little taken aback when she paid.

***


Her flat was amazing. It had a great view of Big Ben (“Every tourist’s wet dream” she said when he commented on it.) Every wall was painted a different vibrant colour and each with it’s own assortment of paintings by contemporaries like Amy Brown, Nene Thomas, Jayde Hilliard, and Jasmine Becket-Griffith, among others.

Her home was a mix-mash of contemporary bohemian and 17th century favorites---rich woods, claw-footed chairs and chaises. It screamed either a woman desperately trying to find herself or a reflection of someone who was a crazy, eclectic, funky mess.

“Home sweet home.” she held her arms up like Vanna White. “What do you think?’

“You did all this in three months?”

“Way to skirt around an actual answer.” She said, opening the fridge.

“No, I like it, I’m just surprised by how lived in it actually looks.”


She handed him a diet soda. “Yeah, well…I’m a manic decorator.” She took a drink from her can. “Boy, I’m a good four inches taller than you, aren’t I?”

“You know, you have a way of kicking my ego in the balls.”

“S’nothing to be ashamed of, being shorter than a woman.”

He scoffed at her remark.


“Seriously! Four words; Tom Cruise. Nicole Kidman.”

“But you’re not a lanky blond.”

“OH! Extra points for sarcasm! You gonna sit down, ‘cause I’m getting tired of having my chin touch my tits.”

“Ouch! Below the belt.”

She passed by him and he caught a hint of her perfume. Was that chocolate? Yes, and there was something deeper there too, something that reminded him of his childhood.

He sat down next to her.

Amber, but something else under it. What was that?

“So, what do you do?” he set his can on the coffee table. There was no sign of a coaster. This was his kind of girl.

“I lure handsome coffee shop owners into my flat, rob them blind. Bury the bodies in the landfill about and hour and a half from here.”

He laughed.


“I’m a writer. For the Rolling Stone.”

“What do you write about?”

“Movies and music, mostly. And anything Nirvana.”

“Cobain was a God.”

“Love killed him. Don’t care what anyone says.”

“But she does make great music.”

“Damn her to hell.”

He laughed.

“You know, I think this is the most fun I’ve had on a date in a long time.”


“That’s bleak.” she said sardonically.

“No, I mean it.”

“Have we finally concurred that this is in fact a date?” he started to respond, but she cut him off. “Because if it is, you’ll be lucky if you get pass first base, but if it’s not, you still have a chance of getting laid.”

“I like your style.”

“Well, I’m a girl of class.”