She afterwards reflects that their meeting is only typical of her luck: bad timing, bad impression, bad grace, bad luck. In short, as Mr. Micawber might say: bad.
Really, it's all his fault—no, it isn't. It's all hers—definitely all hers. She's in the middle of shopping, rattling off dialogue for her latest novel under her breath as she skims the produce aisle, a basket on one arm and her smudged, ratty grocery list (scribbled all over with various story ideas as they come to her) in the other.
"Let's see—is that an 'a' or an 'h'—oh, dammit, I can't tell. I knew I should have typed it—but honestly, who has time to be typing everything?"
But whether or not the letter in question is an A or an H is suddenly irrelevant as she slams into someone—a rather tall someone, she might add, with a bulky coat.
Predictably (drat her luck!), the paper goes flying—the basket goes flying—she herself almost takes flight. A hand, however, is at her elbow, and a deep, funny voice with an accent you could spread on toast is saying:
"Ach—it is my wrong, Mees. All mine. Please, allow me to gather your things."
Heat blooms in her neck, spreading up to her cheeks; in a moment, she's on the floor, gabbling.
"Oh—don't bother—always happens to me—such a bumbler—please don't worry about it—"
But he (for it is a he) is there, patiently fishing rolling apples out from under shelves and shoes and diving for a box of cereal. He pays no mind to her stammers and presents the basket to her with a slight bow.
"For you, Mees. I haf hope that they will stay in their place now—it is not so that they should wander."
She can't help but smile, put rather more at ease by his unkempt air: he's got hair that looks well acquainted with his fingers and a patchy coat out at the elbows and a funny, kind face that isn't handsome by any means but isn't really ugly, either.
"Oh, I'll keep them more in check," she promises, laughing. "Thanks a bundle. What exactly's your name, please?"
He looks almost startled that she would ask.
"It—it is Friedrich. Friedrich Bhaer. And yours?"
She smiles.
"Jo—Jo March."
His brow furrows.
"Jo? That is a female name?"
She just laughs.
"Oh—well, no, not really. My name is Josephine, isn't that horrible? But I was always called Jo because I'm something of a tomboy."
"Ah! That is well." His face clears, and he nods. "I see—are you the Mees March, then, who I read of in the—how do you say—the newspapers—the Mees March who just married?"
Jo shakes her head.
"Oh, God, no! Jehosephat. Me married. No, that's my sister, Amy; I have 3 sisters—well, two. One—one died a year or so ago."
He frowns, and his eyes are much kinder than she can stand at the moment. He puts a hand on her shoulder.
"The face is too young to have such old sorrow," he says quietly. "My apologies, Mees March."
Jo smiles.
"It's—it's alright. It's gotten much better. Sorry—but anyway, my sister Amy is the one who just married Laurie. Meg's already married; I'm the only one left, the old maid of the family."
She grins to let him know that she's alright with this; this careless joking of hers has gotten her a lot of unwelcome attention from well-meaning, brainless young men.
He nods, face thoughtful.
"I see—you haf no liking for the romance?"
"Not really—it's all bunk, if you want my opinion on it. I write all that kind of junk for a living—romance novels, I mean. It's definitely disillusioned me as to the whole mess."
His forehead furrows again, and he bites his lip.
"You write the romance novels?"
She flushes, abruptly remembering who and where she is.
"Oh! Um—only every so often. I write all kinds of stupidity, you know—newspaper articles and all that. I should really be going, Mr. Bhaer—it's been good to meet you, though!"
He bows again, and somehow the action suits him, middle-aged and rumpled-looking as he is.
"Goodbye, Mees Marsch. Until we meet again, so?"
Another grin tugs at her mouth; something about his fresh, fumbling pleasantries is absurdly funny.
"So."
888888888888888888888
She's stumbling back to her apartment, bloated bags in each arm, when a grave, familiar voice stops her in her tracks.
"No, Mees Kirk, I am not needing anything. I thank you. No—please—trouble not. I haf money myself."
Jo peeks over the tops of the bags, gawking in sheer surprise; surely that isn't the funny man from the store!
But there he is, sure as anything and standing near the stairs, talking with profuse gestures to the little, plump-faced landlady, who's nodding at him breathlessly.
"Oh—oh, I know, Professor—but—but I just worry…"
Mrs. Kirk sees Jo standing by the door, however, and stops mid sentence.
"Oh—Josephine! I don't think you've met the Professor; he just moved last week into the second floor! He's been horribly busy, poor man, catching up on all his work. Professor Bhaer, have you met Josephine?"
Professor Bhaer (the title seems peculiarly suitable) nods, relieving her of two of her bags.
"I haf had the pleasure, Mees Kirk. You are on which floor, Mees Marsch?"
She flushes.
"Oh—the third one, but don't bother—"
"Oh, the Professor's like that, dear—always so helpful. He ought to be careful, though, and not hurt himself."
Bhaer just chuckles, moving up to the next flight of steps; Jo follows behind him, fumbling with her free hand for her key and mildly uncomfortable with the whole situation.
At the third floor, he turns to her.
"Is the right one?"
"Yes, this is it—here, let me unlock the door—"
She fools with the lock for a moment, at last pushing the door open.
"Here you are. Here—just stick them anywhere—thank you so much, Professor—"
He nods, giving one of his little half-bows.
"It is nothing, Mees Marsch. It is not good for the small back to do such things. If you haf need of help again, I am on the floor below, yes? I will go—again, Mees Marsch, a pleasure."
"Likewise," she stammers—something about his face is almost uncomfortably frank, even for her. "Thanks again, Professor."
So he goes, and Jo sinks into a chair and starts pegging away at her novel—the dialogue she invented in line at the store is just smashing—and forgets, within a minute, all about him.
