He hadn’t gotten a glance yet, and it was late afternoon. It had been four years, three months, and twenty-three days, and he had gotten a glance every single day no matter how much he had to work for it.
Even a sullen glance would do, the kind the girl in the coffee shop was likely to give him. It would be enough for a day’s ration of living.
But she didn’t glance at him, though he had watched her and sent eager thoughts her way for over an hour. Instead, she filled her journal pages with loopy writing and the occasional doodle. He wondered what thoughts poured through her mind like clear honey but did not have the courage to ask her. Soliciting a glance was enough. Curiosity, too much. He noticed that her back was straight—straight like outrage and orange-blossom debutantes and piano lessons—and that she wore practical shoes below the full skirt of her dress. Her fingernails looked as if they had been painted professionally, but weeks ago. Above her head the clock read 4:47—he had only thirteen minutes before the shop closed, and he’d be forced to search elsewhere.
When she removed her headphones a jolt went through him from fingertips to groin. He waited a few breaths so as not to appear overeager, then leaned across the narrow valley between their tables and held out his hand. She looked at it, sighed visibly, and did not take it. For a moment or two, it seemed she would just walk away, and his heart choked him in his throat. Then she turned a little toward him but did not meet his eyes. Her eyelashes against her cheekbones were soft like feathers.
“What’s your name then,” she said. He could hear a slight honk of East Coast in her voice, but also a softness of the South.
“Henry,” he answered, still holding his hairy-knuckled hand like an offering between them.
“Of course it is,” she said. With efficient movements she coiled her headphones and stowed them in her purse. She wore a bright sundress that showed tan lines fading on her skin. Written over her face was language he couldn’t speak, clear and unreadable.
“I’m a writer,” he said as his hand fell to his side.
“Is that so,” she answered, still without looking at him. He wondered when in her life smile had turned so hard in the corners and why. He thought of asking her but didn’t think it would increase his chances of catching the glance he needed. Tension twisted his belly. Eight minutes left. He saw that the barista began stacking chairs and wiping tables. He always found it hard to be subtle on a deadline. Or anytime at all.
“You’re very—” beautiful, he almost said, but then he remembered the last time he’d said that and he bit down on his words so hard he hurt his teeth. That time he had almost missed the glance, since he had spent his hours working toward that one woman and ended up having to bump into an old woman on the street and chase mandarins from stabbing heels and yawning drains in order to catch her look of mingled annoyance and pleasure. You can’t compliment women nowadays, not full-on like that.
“Hm?” Her eyebrows, scribing their lovely arcs on her bones, raised a little. She had nearly finished packing her bag. In seconds she would zip it closed and walk away. Three minutes remaining.
He looked around the café for inspiration. Was she curious because he didn’t finish his sentence? He tried to think of the best answer and settled.
“Intriguing,” he said.
The smile on her face softened. She paused, pondered for a moment, then leaned back into her seat. “Why do you say that,” she asked.
“I—” He swallowed. “You move so slowly.”
“That’s an odd compliment.” Overhead the record he’d long ago tuned out ended, bringing a kind of pause to the room, so that her words rang out perhaps louder than she intended. A faint blush rose along her cheekbones.
“I’m odd that way,” he said when the music began again.
She started to say something, seemed to think better of it, and stood. He felt his hope leave with her as she began to walk away. He stood, his throat aching. Visions of his lonely room filled his mind—and then she turned on her heel and looked him straight in the eyes. It was a level glance.
“You really are odd,” she said, with a hint of a smile in the corners of her lips. The interest in her eyes was too slight to be called curiosity, but it was enough. He could almost imagine the air growing golden with the power of that glance, his soul bestowed with meaning beyond the too-small chair and the too-small table in the cramped corner of a coffeehouse. And then it was over and she walked out the door, and he was back to being just himself, but seen.
He would try here again tomorrow.
Emily McIntyre is a lifetime fantasy obsessive and martial artist. She has work published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Metaphorosis, Aquifer: The Florida Review, and many other publications. Read more at www.emilymcintyre.com.