Rain descends from the darkened sky, pelting the innocent with chilly revenge. The glow from street lamps and neon signs make the rain appear copper in the rapidly fading light. Katniss hurries along in a lemon raincoat, desperately trying to avoid the onslaught of random passerby.
She boards the tube, filled to capacity with a variety of people, stockbrokers, mothers with babies resting on their hips, teenagers sitting on each others laps on the plastic seats, all trying to dry off from the rain. She hears the mechanical "mind the gap" and gingerly steps off a few uncomfortable stops later, content to curl up in her own bed, watch Psych on Netflix, and fall asleep with a dirty plate on the nightstand. As she ascends the stairs, she lets out a long, frustrated sigh. She got off a stop too soon, Angel Station. Though the walk to her apartment from here is a short one, pinprick tears of embarrassment fill her brown eyes and she quickly wipes them away.
She walks back out into the misty night. The streets of London are strangely empty tonight. Her only companions are a man in a business suit, walking briskly and talking at a high decibel into his smart phone, and a mocha skinned woman in a shocking turquoise sari. She sees the woman duck into a dimly lit restaurant, with a neon "open" sign in the window. She glances at her watch 7:30 pm, and decides now would not be a bad time for dinner, and waits for a minute before following the woman inside.
She is immediately overwhelmed by waves of spice- whiffs of cumin, touches of saffron, cardamom, and curry powder assault her nose, and she begins to imagine all the delightful delicacies that await. She places her coat on the back of the mahogany chair at a rickety table near the hostess podium. The waiter is wearing a midnight blue turban on his rich brown forehead, and his eyes light up upon noticing her similarly dark skin. He rushes over, chattering away in Hindi, of which, she can only understand a few words. She gives her order, chicken makhani, as she munches on the provided papadam and chutney. She almost decides to order a mango lassi as well, but thinks better of it, having embarrassed herself enough for one evening.
The curry is spicy and savory, creamy butter meeting tangy tomato, nutty cashews, and sautéed onions, the char on the chicken adding just the right amount of crunch. She closes her eyes, and can almost see her mother's cracked hands mixing the exotic spices for the curries of her childhood.
She glances up for a moment from the heavenly food when she hears something she has not heard in a very long time, an American accent. Intrigued, she examines the speaker. He has a chiseled jaw, all honey hair and cornflower blue eyes, emphasized by a blueberry tie and a white button down rolled up to his elbows, her biggest weakness. Her throat suddenly feels dry. Her stomach drops. Her eyes follow as a pair of thick glasses slide down the bridge of his nose slightly as he examines the menu.
"I'm sorry, what is... bhindi masala?" he asks, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks. She laughs a little at his poor pronunciation.
The waiter doesn't understand him and turns to her, eyes begging her to try to translate. Her cheeks burn as she translates, haltingly, but the relief is evident in both men's eyes. He sits on a bench, furiously scribbling in a notebook as he waits for his carryout, and she steals glances in his direction, trying to pluck up the courage to go over and talk to him. But it's too late. He grabs his bag and walks out, turning left onto the street, disappearing like a specter in the London fog.
She mopes through the rest of her dinner, and can't wait to walk the few missed blocks back to her apartment, put on her pajamas, get out her laptop, and watch as Shawn and Gus solve another crime.
The waiter comes to clear the plate, and when he returns, he places a mango lassi in front of her, as well as a white paper, which she assumes is the check. She almost motions to the waiter to tell him that she didn't order this, but opens the paper instead. Its not the check at all, but a note written in spidery handwriting.
Hi. I just wanted to thank you for helping me order dinner tonight. And tell you that I'm kicking myself for not thanking you in person. And that you're beautiful. And I hope you like mango lassis, (maybe we could get one together sometime? Please?) Anyway, my name is Peeta, and my phone number is: 020-7787-0346.
She fishes her i-phone out of her bag, dials the number, and smiles.
A/N: I might (big might- i'm an incredibly busy student) continue if there's interest, so leave me a review!