Fancy Seeing You Here

He walked the streets during the day and worked at night, except Saturday. He sometimes walked with direction, sometimes without. Today he just wandered. He wandered up this street, across this one, down that one, and around that block; and that's how he saw her. It was the first time he had seen her out of his café for years. She was entering a coffee shop, no doubt the same one she went to every day. Perhaps she got the same thing every day, walked in at the same time and said the same thing:

"One large coffee, hold the cream, two lumps of sugar please. Oh, and a chocolate croissant."

Or, "Earl Grey tea, no sugar. Oh, and one blueberry scone. Please" then maybe she'd flash a smile and move on; every day.

He could imagine the things she'd say; it would always be the same. That's how she was. It was so straight forward, so orderly, so unlike him, yet ironically he loved it; probably because he loved everything about her.

He stood across the street, waiting for the stream of cars to break so he could cut across. He wondered if he would go into the shop. He wondered if he would confront her and say something to her; if he was brave enough to break the daily happenings of her day and week, just to say hi. The cars stopped for a moment, and he walked across the street, hands in his pockets, head bent down, still pondering.

By the time he got to the store front, he didn't have to ponder anymore because out she came with her cup of hot steaming something and a little brown bag with her every day pastry. She glanced at him, did a double take, and then walked briskly over smiling, her overly confident, stretched out, fake smile. She looked so unhappy underneath, he couldn't help but think if she were with him she'd be happy.

She stopped in front of him still smiling, "Ron! How nice to see you, I haven't seen you for… well" insert uneasy fake laugh, "not since last Saturday." And her smile stayed plastered on.

He wouldn't make her feel bad, he wouldn't talk about how unhappy she really was, he'd help her pretend to be happy and maybe she would be. So he smiled back.

"I've been fine, you know, wandering around." He waved his hand, as if they ran into eachother and made chitchat regularly. She smiled and they stared at each other, in an amicable yet uncomfortable silence in a contradictory moment in time.

She shifted her weight uneasily and he could feel the not so graceful exit coming on and he couldn't help himself.

He leaned in just as she started to turn away and grabbed lightly for the arm of her jacket,"Why are you unhappy?" he would liberate her and he would be there to run with her when she was freed.

"Pardon?" she didn't seem to be expecting this she looked mildly surprised and glanced around uncomfortably.

"Why are you unhappy?" he demanded, harsher, and harsher, why was she pretending?

"I-I-," she stuttered along with her words, he so rarely caught her off her guard, he found it mesmerizing and horrible at the same time.

"Why don't you tell me? Why do you have that fake smile on your face? Why do you look so washed out? Why are you wearing that? why are you changing yourself to conform to whatever he wants you to? Why are you here, in this city, getting coffee? You changed and you don't like it… so why don't you let go?"

She wasn't taken aback anymore, or at least not purely so, now she also looked beyond angry.

"I cant believe this, I see you for the first time in years outside of your little café, where you play your music and don't acknowledge me, incase you didn't know and this is what you say? I see you there and the only time you open your mouth is to talk to some decked out girl that walks by; you go through life not doing anything! I don't even know if you have a job, you sing the same songs you've sung for as long as I've known you,and you cry. You don't do anything; you just make music and wander! And now you're attacking me, with the most words you've said to me in years, accusing me of being unhappy! I don't know where you think you come off Ron Weasley, but you have no right."

He smiles at her, really smiles.

"That's the most alive I've seen you in years. Maybe you don't feel happier, but don't you feel more—more alive?"

And she laughed.

"No Ron and as angry as I want to be with you; I'm so happy that I can recognize you right now."

"Recognize me?" and she smiles, really smiles.

"Yes, I see you play music and you wear so many layers I cant recognize the boy I knew in school but here you are just like I left you."

"Yea, just like you left me. Why don't you peel off you're layers and be the way you were when you left me too?" her face turned back to that of an over worked woman, and she paused before speaking.

"Ron—"

"Come on Hermione, just admit it you miss being you"

"Ron this is me." She said half forcefully and exasperated and half apologetic and sad.

"No, it isn't and you know it!" he almost yelled. What did it take to make her understand?

"Ron, you don't even know me!"

"Yes I do! I've known you half my life! And I know you have never looked so unhappy as you do now. In fact for the past few years I have barely seen you really smile once. Not once before today."

"Maybe you should have come to our house when we invited you to dinner, or did you have prior engagements every night? Maybe you should have come to my wedding then or were you too busy wandering the streets to make it for a couple hours of my life?" he didn't answer "Maybe if you'd bothered to get out of yourself for a little bit you'd have been able to be around to see me happy. But no, I don't suppose you could have done that could you have? It's just you and your guitar, and God knows what emotions to drive it." He just stared at her, unwilling to look away.

"What, did I strike a cord Ron?"

"You didn't come and hear me play that night." she looked at him first amazed and then tired, realization ran through her body.

"I can't believe you" she almost laughed.

"I ask you to make it to one day, one day of your life. One day, to acknowledge the happiness of someone you considered your best friend, at some point, and you couldn't come. You couldn't because I was so selfish I couldn't come to your café, the café I went to every single week for as long as you played there, the café that I went to even if there was somewhere else to be, the one I went to because of you. But you couldn't make it to my wedding." He didn't answer her. Why couldn't she see how unhappy she was?

"You don't belong to—"

"I don't belong to anyone Ron." She cut him off before his words could aggravate her.

"You don't belong with him then." He responded promptly.

"You can't say that." She answered quietly.

"I just did! You were stolen from me! This isn't right!" he yelled.

She eyed him wearily and opened her mouth to speak, words seemed to fail her. Then her eyes softened, an exasperated hunch of understanding rested on her back. She opened it again and nothing came out, finally she looked at him in the eye and said:

"I'm sorry Ron. I have to go to work." And she walked away. He didn't move for a few moments. He still couldn't understand, she loved him deep down, he knew she did but she didn't want to remember she did. He walked away and wandered the streets all the rest of the day, just like the day before.

That Saturday she still came to hear him play but she didn't acknowledge him as he walked in but she sat in her seat and listened to him play and He took her home again. Each time he played she came again. He couldn't stand it, she never talked to him, she never looked at him; she was killing herself and she was killing his music.

He talked to the manager one night, he wouldn't make it immediate but he'd ease himself out.