We met on a Saturday afternoon. It was an accident too. If something had changed, I'd never have met you. Some days I wonder if that would have been better.
I was sitting at my normal table, in my normal coffee shop. Java Juice, on the corner of Maple and Seventeenth. I loved the feel of the place, with it's glazed wooden interior, warm and soft lighting, and light background noise. It was my sacred place, great for quiet contemplation and inspiration. Also, their dark roast was to kill for.
Java was a great place for watching people. He knew things about the other regulars that he had no reason to know. Like how May Paulsen came here every other Friday and sat in the third booth from the door and cried. Her husband was cheating on her with his assistant. She'd seen their messages on his phone. He didn't know.
They had a two-year-old daughter named Silvia. May pretended that she didn't know for the sake of the kid, but she took every other Friday afternoon off from work to sit at her table and let it all out. Her tears mixed with her chai latte, and she was able, just for an hour, to stop pretending that she wasn't broken.
Mancio Capaldo was a business executive who spent more than he earned. His suits, which looked expensive, were fake and cheap, as was his watch. The car he drove was real, but he'd be paying it off for years. He knew it, too. He was never married, and never would be. The only thing he held in his heart was a love for money. No woman would be able to love him, and he wasn't exactly the type to share his wealth, what little of it there was left. He wore too much cologne and too little deodorant.
Claire Estelle was a college kid studying anthropology. She had a strained relationship with her parents, mostly due to her girlfriend, Vienna. Vienna was a beautiful, smart, and talented girl, studying journalism. The only thing that made her unfit in their eyes was her gender, an unfortunate by-product of a strict Catholic upbringing. They came here to study and often sat near me. We knew each other by name and had a conversation every time our trips to Java Juice coincided.
One of the upsides to having a photographic memory such as mine is that I never forget a face. Not a single one. Every person who came into Java was imprinted in my mind. That's why you stood out.
I walked into Java Juice on that day to find someone sitting in my booth. I turned to Tysen, the host in charge of seating the clients . He knew better than to seat someone in my booth, especially when there were many other seats available. I didn't even really get a good look at the girl in my booth before I stomped over to confront him.
"C'mon, don't get angry with me. She wanted that booth specifically. You weren't here yet and she's a paying customer."
"No, that's our booth that you like to sit in."
I grumbled and stomped to the booth across the room from mine. I set my computer bag down and glared at the girl sitting in my booth. Then I stopped because I really saw you.
You had a pile of books nearly your own height sitting on the table next to you. I saw Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Arthur Conan Doyle. I saw classics and a few newer fiction pieces.
You had those long, blonde curls that seemed to glitter in the soft light of Java's string lamps. I couldn't see your eyes, but your face was so beautiful, even from across the room. You had soft curves in both face and body, and you had nice makeup on that accentuated your features.
I thought that you were beautiful. That was my first thought, no matter how cliche. However, I'd seen plenty of beautiful women in Java before. Your beauty wasn't why I approached you.
I approached you because of the look on your face. You were reading a thick novel of some obscure English origin, and the expression that played across your features as you simply devoured the words was nothing short of perfection. It was rapture.
I had never before seen someone so entranced by words on a paper.
As a writer, I have a keen eye and a fondness for things that are beautiful. As a writer, I have an eye for things that are unusual. As a writer, I have an all-encompassing love for things that are interesting.
You checked all the boxes. I think that maybe Tysen knew that when he seated you. To this day I wonder if you really insisted on sitting there, or if Tysen knew exactly what he was doing.
I'm not exactly sure what gave me the courage to gather my things, walk over to the booth, and plop down across from you, but whatever it was, I thank it daily.
The funny thing is, you didn't even seem surprised when I sat down. Your face dropped at my approach, and I realized, with some amusement, that you weren't mourning my arrival, but the fact that you were expected to put down the book and exchange words with me.
When you looked up at me, you smiled and I nearly died. You had the cutest dimples, and from this distance, I could see a spattering of freckles across your nose and cheekbones, and I noticed that your eyes were blue. Stormy grey-blue, like a thundercloud. You smelled like fresh rain and lavender.
I started, feeling a bit wary that you didn't know me and I didn't know you.
"Hi. I'm Micah. Micah Stevenson . I'm truly sorry for pausing your book, but you seemed to be really enjoying it and I had to come over and take a look for myself. Anyone who reads Charlotte Bronte obviously has superior taste, and I've been looking for a good book recently."
Your eyes sparkled and your cheeks flushed. You seemed to be both delighted by my question and embarrassed at being caught in the midst of your addiction.
I extended my hand tentatively towards you, and you took it, shaking it voraciously.
I raised one eyebrow in curiosity. Your name didn't sound American, but your features and style were very caucasian. The linguistics of your name sounded familiar to me as if I'd heard it before.
You noticed my puzzled expression and began to explain, but I stopped you before the words left your lips.
Your jaw dropped in amazement.
"I'm a writer. I know lots of things that don't exactly correlate with each other."
You smiled and grabbed the book you had been so enamored with earlier. The front of the novel was inscribed with golden letters that read The Great Gatsby.
"Really? Your first time reading it? I'd have expected it to be on the top of your list."
"My fifth time reading it." You smiled.
This revelation left me shocked. Your fifth time? How was it, then, that you seemed so in love with the pages? How did it happen that you were still so awed by these words you already knew?
As if sensing my questions and shock, you smiled and laughed.
"Men are so silly. Why should you only read a book once?"
"Doesn't it get old, after a couple times?"
"No. I just fall in love with the words all over again."
I think you owned a little part of me. Even then, you did. I fell in love with you at a little booth at my favorite coffee shop, the first time I met you. I was so far in over my head, and I didn't even know it.
We talked for a while after. Eventually, you had to go and I had work to do. We parted ways, but I didn't forget you. I remembered the girl with the curly hair and the books.
My friends, Marc and Joen, convinced me to go out with them one night. The clubs and bars have always been their thing, but I never liked them. It was Joen's birthday, though, so they guilted me into coming out with them.
After a few too many shots and a multitude of bachelorettes at the table next to us, both of my friends disappeared with different blondes, and I knew they'd be occupied for a few hours at the least. I was the designated driver, though, so I had to stay.
I bought myself a drink. And then a second drink, when I started to feel a little sad. Then a third, when an hour had gone by and there was still no sign of my compadres.
Fourth, fifth, possibly sixth but I forgot, drinks went by. And then I was hammered. For some strange reason, I seemed to think it was a good idea to go dance. The floor was packed with people and they were playing some ramped-up version of a rap song. Girls were twisting and shimmying and shaking. Guys were leering. It just seemed like the place to be.
I was dancing, if you could have called it that, when I caught a flash of gold in the corner of my eye. I smelled a hint of rain and lavender and turned, confused. No. This wasn't your scene. There was no way that out of all of New York City, I happened to go to the same bar as you on the same night.
There was suddenly a hand, folded through mine, and I was being pulled back. Out and away. I caught a flash of blonde hair and storm eyes before I came back to my senses a little.
"Wait... I. Igotta..gotta driveee. My friends."
You laughed and it sounded like a river. "You, my friend, are in no shape to be driving anywhere. They'll get a taxi."
"Will be fine until morning. This isn't your kind of place, and you're going to get hurt, flailing around on the dance floor like an idiot. C'mon."
You pulled the door open with your other hand, still keeping a firm grip on me, and pulled me out into the humid night. We walked a little way, down a back street, and to an alley. I remember being vaguely concerned that I didn't know you very well, and maybe you were going to kill me.
I also remember clearly thinking that I'd be fine with that.
Your makeup was glittering in the light of the neon sign in the alley and you looked so beautiful. You were wearing this glittery dress that hugged all your curves and makeup to match. Your hair was all around your shoulders and your eyes were laughing. You looked so beautiful and I had forgotten everything in those blue eyes.
Maybe it was the tequila, or maybe I was just out of my mind, but I really couldn't keep my hands off of you. I grabbed your hips and slammed you against the brick wall in the back of the alley. And then I looked in your eyes for any signs of fear or anger or anything that told me that you didn't want this, but I saw nothing. Actually, that's not true. I saw hunger.
I kissed you. Deep and slow and burning. Like this was all I'd ever needed. And at that moment, it was.
You were making these little noises like you were a baby animal or something. These little tiny moans that heated my whole body up and set my blood on fire. Your fingernails were digging into the skin on my arms and your body was warm and your skin was smooth and I wanted all of it.
I wanted to fuck you, right here in the alleyway, and claim you as my own. Your head was thrown back and my mouth was on your neck and it occurred to me that whatever you were doing with your hips was going to break me, and I was about one more kiss away from ravaging you, this perfect, beautiful, stunning specimen of a woman, in a dirty, rat-infested alleyway. You deserved better treatment.
I pulled away and took in the full sight of you, breathing heavy, priorly perfect hairdo and makeup all messed up, glittery dress bunched up around your thighs. It took all I had to restrain myself.
The drinks weren't worn off, but during however long our stay in this alleyway had been, I'd recovered my ability to speak in mostly full sentences.
"Ms. Ocariz, I...would like to move this... somewhere much more private." You were still looking dazed, just staring at me with dull eyes from the wall where I'd had you.
Eventually, you shook off your stupor and nodded.
"Yeah, yeah my car is just around the block and my apartment is like two minutes that way." You basically dragged me all the way to your car, and I'm pretty sure you ran at least two red lights on your way home. While you drove, I rested my hand on your thigh, right under the hem of your dress. While not exactly the most proper place for my hand to go, you certainly weren't complaining.
We barely made it in the door.
The second the door was closed, you jumped at me and wrapped your legs around my waist I blindly stumbled forward until I found what I assumed to be a wall.
You weren't small, but I was strong and determined, so I did what I had to do.
In the span of about one second, my jeans were around my ankles with my boxers. You weren't wearing any. You tilted just barely to the side and then there was bliss. Perfect, complete, divine ecstasy.
You made this noise when I started to move, which nearly had me crumbling in the first minute. Your head was thrown back and you kept whimpering, like a lost puppy or some sort of wounded animal. And it was glorious.
You kept getting louder and louder and louder and your skin was so warm on mine. In mere minutes, you screamed out my name and bit my shoulder. I followed soon after, moving through both of our cries.
I was sweating and spent, but not done yet. I wanted more. I wanted to see all of you, kiss every inch of your skin. I let you down and as if reading my mind, you grabbed my hand and led me to your bedroom. You had a huge floor to ceiling window in your room, which you hadn't minded to put blinds on, and I could see why. Your room faced the entire New York City skyline and all the lights of the city were on full display, a beautiful show of colors and flashes.
Your gold dress had settled back down and you walked over to the window, touching the glass softly.
"It's beautiful, isn't it? All the people, going around on their own separate lives, not knowing anything about me. My insignificance is comforting."
I came up behind you and stripped off my shirt. I walked up behind you and pulled your dress off over your head, pleased to see you wore no other garments either.
You pressed up against your window and waited for me. I obliged.
Our breath mixed on the window and you made more of those noises that I liked so much. The night city illuminated your skin and I breathed in your scent, fresh rain and lavender. I wondered what made you smell like that.
After a while, my movements turned sloppy and I once again reached that peak of beautiful pleasure. You did not, which displeased me.
You seemed to think that we were done because you turned around as if to head to bed.
I gently caught your arm in my hand and pulled you back to the window. With careful precision, I lifted one of your legs and put it on my shoulder. Then I did something with my mouth that you really seemed to enjoy. It took a little while, but I'm good with my tongue, and soon I had to assist you in standing. When you regained your ability to function, you immediately dropped to your knees to do the same.
I stopped you though, pulling you back up for a kiss. You were tired, I could see it. That specific thing could wait for another day.
In the dull glow of the city lights, you pulled me into bed. Still naked, I embraced your body and pulled you very close to me. The room was rather cold and you were softer than any blanket I'd ever felt. That seemed to please you and you made a contented noise deep in your throat.
After a short time, I fell asleep in your arms.
I woke up to your ceiling. Which wouldn't have been so surprising, had you not painted a vast, sprawling rendition of Starry Night on your ceiling. The colors had been unnoticeable in the darkness of your room last night, but in the early morning light, the swirling colors and shapes were unavoidable.
You were still sleeping soundly, your breasts pushed against my back and your arms entwined around my waist. You pulled me very tightly to you and seemed unwilling to let me go. Slowly, I turned to look at you. Your makeup had been mostly wiped off, either on the wall or the window or the pillows. I didn't mind. It showed off all your freckles better. Your hair was draped across your arms and the bed and me, which I also didn't mind. It was much longer than I'd originally thought.
Carefully, I removed myself fro your embrace. Miraculously, it didn't wake you. I went around the room, grabbing discarded articles of clothing. I didn't bother putting them on yet, I could do that in the doorway, where you wouldn't wake up and see me. It was quite the feat, but I managed to grab all my clothes.
As I walked towards the doorway, I looked around the apartment. I'd been a little preoccupied last night and hadn't really taken much note of the scenery.
Everywhere I looked, there was beauty. Her apartment was decorated with Christmas lights, the warm-colored ones that look all aesthetic-y. There were also flowers everywhere, and books on every surface. In the kitchen, there was a living vertical garden of herbs and spices and an essential oil diffuser was emitting lavender scent. So that's where you got it from.
Your home was beautiful, and unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was beautiful, unusual, and most of all, it was interesting.
Standing there, in the doorway of your home, I thought about you. I thought about your hair and your eyes and that look on your face while you were reading a book for the fifth time, but devouring it like it was the first. I thought about your whimpers and your soft skin and the noises you made with my head between your legs. Thinking about all of it, I realized that I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay.
I dropped my clothes on your couch. I walked back into the bedroom and you opened your eyes when I flopped back down.
I put my hand at the apex of your thighs and we stayed like that for a very long time.
Our first few months of dating went so smoothly that it was like a dream. At times I'd find myself wondering when I'd wake up and realize that I was still alone. It never happened. We spent most of our time at either your house or Java because I was fond of the people and you were fond of the coffee.
I told you about my people watching, and you wanted to know everything. We sat at my booth and you asked me to tell you about every single person who walked through the door. I was more than happy to do so. Every time I told you some little slice of another person's life, your eyes would light up. You often told me that I was your favorite storyteller.
My house was boring and yours was beautiful, so we spent our time there. During the day, I would sit on your couch among the lavender and the books, and I would write. The novel that I'd been trying to write for years was finally taking shape, and it was all because of you. During the night, your whimpers echoed through the apartment, and sometimes I had to cover your mouth as to not alarm the neighbors.
You were such a beautiful mystery, and I was such a broken adventure. We made beautiful stories and I remember every single one of them. I suppose that that is the issue with a photographic memory. I remember everything, from the way your face looked when you came, to the sound of your voice when you were about to yell at me.
At the beginning of our sixth month, we had our first fight.
We were sitting in Java. You were reading and I was writing, and we were both content in our separate activities.
Our peace was interrupted by sobbing. There were only two tables being used, besides our own, and I knew instinctively who it was. May Paulsen often cried while she was here. It was the only time that she could stop pretending, and she took advantage of the opportunity.
She was crying harder than her normal pace. She liked to be discreet with her tears, and this was anything but. She was crying in huge, chest-heaving sobs and the sound was breaking your heart. I knew what you were going to do before you did it, just how I knew that I couldn't stop you.
You slid out of our booth and went over to her, quieting her with soft words and an arm around her. Together, you chatted quietly, helping her through her tears. Eventually, she quieted and you came back to our table.
I raised an eyebrow at you, asking silently.
"Today was Silvia's third birthday. She feels hopeless and depressed because of her situation, but she knew she couldn't risk her daughter."
"What did you say?" I dreaded your answer.
"I told her she needs to confront him. Both she and her daughter's suffering will last much longer if she does nothing."
I grimaced and sighed, putting my hand to my forehead.
"What?" You frowned at me and narrowed your eyes over the top of your reading glasses.
"Silvia isn't developmentally ready for a blow-out fight like that. She's three. Plus, it isn't our business and it isn't our fight. You should've minded your own beeswax.."
"She was suffering, and she needed advice. I don't know what you expected from me, Micah."
I said nothing, and neither did she. The silence lasted the drive home and over dinner. She turned her back to me when we went to bed. After seeing this, I left and went home to my own bed. I hadn't done that in weeks.
You remained mad at me for a week. We didn't speak. It was such a stupid fight and it was such an easy thing to fix, but I couldn't do it. You'd messed up my reality. I stayed separate from these people that I watched. I went unseen, and I knew their stories from afar. I didn't get involved, and I didn't make myself known. Those were the rules of people-watching.
You'd broken all of them.
When we got back together and made up, something was different. Something had changed in this perfect dynamic of ours and it ruined everything.
We pretended like things were fine for months. We went on with our lives, did our thing, still had sex almost daily. But things weren't the same.
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