First milk, billowing white into the deep caramel, then some sugar, a bit more than she wanted to admit actually, a short taste… yep, just right. Leaning back against the dark-chocolate leather, Sam warmed her hands on the cotton-white porcelain of her cup, sipping her hot beverage carefully. Hot beverage. It sounded so much fancier than ‘cuppa tea’. The door opened right then and another set of undergrads piled in. The velvet curtain, suspended high and wide to keep out the draughts, fell sumptuously back into place in thick Cabernet folds, that deep dark wine they once had with that perfect steak, where was that, ah, yes, that time… A week only, ok, ten days. Hot late-summer days, swimming, laughing, teasing, kissing, kissing, kissing, oh those lips… and warm nights that glowed way past midnight, wide awake, city lights all over, the shadows slashing black against faded street-light-tangerine… That had been a really nice bed actually, her body still remembered its comfort, luxurious.
Sam roused herself and drank another sip. That was then. Now, the three girls next to her who looked like versions of the Courtneys, Britneys, and Lindseys Sam had met so far, all three were talking in the familiar dialect of ‘like’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘ohmagawd’ with the over-enthusiasm of transatlantic twenty-somethings. Their blonde and brunette heads bobbed, their manicured hands rose and fell like their high-pitched voices, their white smiles showing their parents must have had excellant dental coverage. Then there was the man across of her, typing gravely, ashblack Bose sealing off his ears to the world, his fruit-stamped screen sleekly silver, ultrathin. Late twenties, neatly unkempt, maybe a graduate writing another CV – no, another fellow blogger, typing up the latest draft to his novel. He had that look on him, the one Sam recognised, that look that said a lot of thinking was going on, serious thinking, because the words had to be right, perfect, exceptional, breathtaking, the words had to be ‘ohmagawd’, the good kind, because all those other authors and interviews, all those great and terrible reviews, loomed large, like an icy sword of Damocles, ready to trike down and annihilate those delicate dreams of – what? A good book? No, a great book. The kind that generated tweet-threads and hashtags and followers. Of the right kind of course.
Sam wondered if this man, with his half-eaten muffin and tall extra blend, Beanie’s only used those cups for extra blend, Sam wondered if he worried about that kind of stuff, or if he actively chose not to care, like switching off a flat-screen, turning down a radio, or rather, x-ing an app, all apps, actually shutting down the whole thing? And suddenly Sam wanted to speak to him, this man who typed so seriously and looked like he could be someone interesting. She wanted to ask him what he was working on, talk about these things that were her things too, things that she wanted to share and not share at the same time. She wondered what playlist he was listening to, she was 99% certain it was Spotify, probably even Premium, he looked the type. Unless it was all iTunes.
Sam took another sip of her tea. If his smile was good he would be handsome. His eyes were dark from where she sat, as dark as his hair, his face cold-weather pale underneath the neatly trimmed beard because these days every single man below forty had a beard, it was frustrating. To Sam, beards were the hairy equivalent to push up bras, they just hid what was really there. His was short and neat and didn’t look itchy, though, which was a plus. Right then, Sam realised what she was doing, ‘tindering’ as Sonia called it, mental swipes, left, right, IRL. For that second, the casual cruelty of it was clear – she knew absolutely nothing about him, save what she could see – and Sam looked away, mildly embarrassed, hoping she hadn’t been staring.
*
Outside, beyond the panorama panes, strangers rushed past in their coats and scarves, hiding from the weather. No one talked out there, everyone passed each other in silence, sunk deep in their clothes, fighting the wind. They look lonely. It was in their eyes, their faces, that were somehow more absent than absent-minded, earbuds stark white in their ears. Sam took up her pen and wrote:
Bodies moving, hurrying from A to B, wishing they were in C.
She looked at the words. She added:
And even in C we wish for D or E, F or some mystical G, that perfect spot everyone’s so desperate to find.
But even G’s never enough. There’s always H and I and J and the rest of it.
Does anyone ever reach Z?
Or does Z just mean you start at A again?
Does it really matter?
Even in A it’s you in A — and if you’re lucky someone else will be there to share it with you.Â
Colin is there to share it with Greg.
Though even in that sharing there was that space, wasn’t there?
That space (in) between
that nothing could cross and left everyone with these three words:
lonesome
lonely
alone
Sam wanted to add free, but decided against it. She looked across the table. The Writer, as she called him now, was still typing earnestly, frowning gently, fingers hitting black keys precisely. Really, if his smile was good he would be handsome. She should stop this.
Woman stares at a man: a history.
Her phone was still screaming blue murder: CHECK ME CHECK ME CHECK ME. Oh all right. Sam woke up her phone, typed in the code, and checked. RTs from all kinds of people and a DM from Mac.
MacMillan
@thejoycehater
Mind if I join you?
Just for 5, not much
Srsly need some downtime b4
heading home
Sam?
6:31 pm
Sam typed quickly
Omg sorry Mac!
Just checked my phone
Sure come over
Greg’s terrifying Darren again
[3 x cryinglaughing]
 7:12 pm
√
Hi
Ok
be there in 5 x
7:13 pm
[thumbsup] x
7:13 pm
√
Sam looked at the words she typed and the words she wrote down. She kept herself from looking at The Writer. Courtney, Britney, and Lindsey next to her were very animated about some party they went to last week, apparently a whole rom-com happened there. Sam closed her notes. For a split second, she was back in that hot summer night, at the beach, kissing, kissing, just kissing, snogging for days and centuries, like she hadn’t since her teens. Those lips. She would not find them again, she knew it. This was disappointment. Not heartache. Disappointment. She had her one taste, and that was it. Sam looked a her notebook, a smooth red Moleskine, lined. She had at least ten of them already, filled to the brim with thoughts and memories, questions, good brainstorms and silly ideas. They were her life, like grapes turned into wine, really it was that red, a deep, dark, thick red that had become the taste of summer to Sam. Just then, the door opened, and Mac fell in, looking rushed, hot, and harried. Clearly this Wednesday was way worse than expected.
*
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three good words 