Chapter 2
Off the Beaten Track
Martin Heidegger once said: 'To enter upon this path is the strength, and to remain on it the feast of thought.'
Camille gave a happy little sigh, checked her hair, and tucked her purse high on her shoulder. As she walked towards him, he gave her a sort of smile, his eyes darting quickly away, as if he wasn't quite sure if he should greet her or pretend she was air like people did to most strangers.
When she approached though, he took a step back, still holding the fridge door open, and motioned for her pick out before him.
Camille wanted to give a little squeal—when was the last time that she was treated so courteously? All the men at work treated her like a man, which was nice, of course, especially given that it was a male-dominated industry. However, being a 'bro' meant that the heaviest door in the front was hers and hers alone to open, putting all her weight against it to heave and breathing like a working animal. It also meant that she never got to the cafeteria fast enough to get any crab cakes, on the rare occasion they were offered. She had dyed her hair in order to remind herself of her femininity, which seemed to her a somewhat ridiculous yet sadly necessary thing to do.
She pulled her wandering mind back, smiling at the man with more warmth than recommended towards a stranger, and picked out another anchovy pizza.
After taking the pizza box, she lingered at the fridge. Camille quickly racked her brain to think of some line, any of the lines that she played in her head after meeting him, but discovered that her mind was an endless plain of blankness.
The man, who was reaching for the sausages pizza, noticed her presence and turned towards her.
Their eyes met, and they spoke simultaneously.
"Do you have the time?" She asked.
"Who are you?" He asked.
There was a pause in which both blushed slightly, painfully self-aware. It was a pause just long enough for the man to readjust his watch over his sleeve, and for Camille to unconsciously go through the ends of her hair. Then they both spoke again, at once.
"I'm sorry?" she began.
"Eight thirty nine," he answered.
Another pause, in which both realized that they had spoken over the other person yet again, and the situation had turned from awkward to ever so slightly comical.
"I'm Camille," she answered now. Then as an afterthought, "Thanks."
"Camille, that's a nice name, like the movie by George Cukor."
"But," she replied, "I was named after the play showing in Broadway back in the day, adapted from the Dumas fils novel."
"Yes," he nodded, "The movie is based on La Dame aux camélias as well, except in the movie she is called Dame Camille. It released on December twelfth in 1936. The flower camellia is actually mostly found from the Himalayas east to Indonesia. Did you know that the Chinese and Japanese courts bred it for centuries before it ever came to Europe? It's called the tea flower in Chinese for the leaves of the camellia sinensis is actually used to brew tea. Strangely enough it's also the state flower for Alabama."
"Oh."
A beat.
"I-I'm sorry, this is the second time that I've bothered you with trivial facts," he looked away and examined the flooring.
"Oh don't be, please. I found what you said to be fascinating."
"You do?" He looked backed at her with such a surprised and excited look in his eyes that Camille just wanted for him to speak for seven days and her to listen by his side.
"Of course, it's not every day that somebody tells me something about my namesake that I didn't know," she smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner. The man was such a rare blend of goodwill and social awkwardness that she found it endearing. His vast knowledge of pizza toppings and plant genera also helped. Oh, and his hair, Camille loved his hair.
"I'm glad I could do the service," he replied rather formally, still somewhat self-conscious.
Camille got the impression that this didn't happen to him very often. So to cover up his discomfort, she said the first thing that came to her mind, "My parents named me, big Dumas fans. I don't even know if they ever watched that movie. The things that one is never able to learn about one's parents."
"I'm sorry."
She blinked at him, "About what?"
"Your parents."
"My parents? Why?"
"Er," he looked ill at ease now, "You just said that…you parents are alive and well?"
"Yes," what a bizarre question! "They're actually touring Europe right now."
"I assumed that being unable to learn your parent's movie experience meant that they had passed away; I shouldn't have presumed."
"It's not a problem."
"No it is, you showed no tension at the mention of your parents, I should have picked that up." He seemed genuinely upset over such a small, stranger mistake.
"You're being too harsh on yourself, nobody can read minds—at least I hope not."
Her pathetic attempt to liven the mood flopped as he frowned deeper and said, "No, I'm not. It's a part of my job, and I do have a degree in psychology. I was just too nervous."
A degree in psychology? Perhaps he was an assistant professor, or a psychiatrist? He did not have the look of a psychiatrist to him—beige walls, beige floors, fish tank, soothing decorations—but he did fit the professor stereotype quite well. Camille approved of academic people. That wasn't the most important thing he said, however. "Nervous, you say? About what though?"
"Well," he blushed. Camille found it undeservedly adorable. "I had been trying to ask your name for a while now."
Oh wow, Camille thought, this was a lot easier than she thought it would be. So she smiled prettily and asked, "My name? Well perhaps I should start wearing camellias flowers in my hair so that people would know."
"That would only make yourself even more obvious."
'Obvious' was such an odd choice of diction. Camille looked at him and waited for an explanation.
"What I mean is, I would have picked up on you following me around sooner if you had done that."
"What," she gasped out in horror.
"Right, I had been wondering why you were following me."
Oh god, oh god oh god, he knew, he noticed, oh god Camille wanted to bury herself up in a grave of sand and bones. Of course he wasn't asking for her name for the same reason that she wanted to know his. Of course the first time that she actually tried to pick up a guy, he saw her as a stalker. Of course. She couldn't remember the last time she was so mortified.
Something about her must have told him about her embarrassment, because the next moment he got a little flustered as well, "I didn't mean to offend—I mean, I'm just very bad at talking to people that I don't know."
"Not at all," she replied weakly.
"Yes I am, and you are offended. The rims of your eyes have widened by half a millimeter, the muscles in your jaw are tightened, and not to mention you do have a very telling blush going there."
Camille couldn't help but smile. "Was that a joke?"
"It got you to smile, so I say yes."
Perhaps all was not lost. "Ah, and what if I say coffee, my funny man?"
"Coffee?"
"Yes. To atone for offending me."
He gave her two small dimples at the upper corners of his mouth. "Then I would say I would like that very much."
A/N: Please let me know if Reid is being too awkward! I keep making him socially awkward, but then realized that he had been dealing with people for so long, and is no longer that boy out of the training program at the very beginning of the show. Then I realized that I have no control over what spews out of him...
