Disclaimer: Those things which are not mine do not belong to me.
Look around: Do you know where we are?
No?
Well, then, IÕll have to tell you.
WeÕre in the cafe in a BorderÕs bookstore. Could be anywhere in the US. ItÕs Thursday afternoon, so even though itÕs raining, there are only two customers.
Surprised? Oh, I get it. You donÕt think this is the right place for a story to start. You think all stories start somewhere moreÉ exciting. True?
Silly. Bookstores are the home of stories. TheyÕre temples of stories. Libraries are better, but bookstores are just about as good as you can get.
So: the people. One of them (blueberry muffin, small espresso) is a man: slim, just under medium height, with neatly trimmed red hair and a pleasant face. He could be a college professor, or a psychiatrist, or a writer (if you didnÕt know too many writers). That kind of face. He is reading Great Expectations.
The other person, as you might expect, is a woman, but put all thoughts of shy, beautiful girls in glasses right out of your head. This woman (herbal tea, cranberry scone) is plain. In fact, itÕs her only distinguishing quality. (ÒWhat did the woman look like, Officer?Ó ÒPlain.Ó) The only thing she has in common with the Hollywood version of herself is the glasses.
Which is not to say that sheÕs ugly. Quite the opposite: her eyes are a clear, pleasing shade of blue-green, her complexion is good, and if she wasnÕt scowling, her face might be pleasant.
She is reading Les Miserables, and humming softly under her breath. The song, which was common during the French Revolution, is almost unheard of today, so when the man joins in, she is understandably startled.
ÒExcuse me,Ó the man says when they finish the verse. ÒThis isÉ have we met before? You look so familiar.Ó
The woman looks at him. SheÕs dealt with her share of pushy men in her time, and dealing with this one would be no problem, but something makes her pause.
ÒPossibly,Ó she says. The man pauses for a long time before speaking again.
ÒWas it at a party?Ó
ÒI donÕt go to parties,Ó she starts to say, but he overrides her, something that hasnÕt happened in a while.
ÒYes, it was. I remember. You were wearing a blue dress and some kind of necklace, andÉÓ He trails off. They stare at each other.
ÒI think we might have had aÉ friendÉ in common,Ó she says slowly.
ÒTall guy, black hair, looked like he didnÕt get out much?Ó
ÒÉYes.Ó
He smiles suddenly, stands up. ÒI donÕt think we were introduced. IÕm Robert Gadling.Ó
ÒLydia.Ó
ÒJust Lydia?Ó
ÒNo.Ó
ÒAll right. Mind if I join you?Ó
Lydia (all right, weÕll call her that for now) bites her lower lip and thinks for a while. About funerals. About dreams. About old friends.
About stories.
ÒAll right,Ó she says.
And I suppose youÕre going to ask how I know this.
Silly child. I was there. Nobody saw me, which was a not unpleasant change, but I was there. I saw everything.
I donÕt usually do this stories thing, but thereÕs a pleasing symmetry to this one. I like symmetry. I like things to be neat. It makes it so much more fun for me to meddle with them.
Now go. Maybe IÕll see you again.
You hope so, anyway.
Look around: Do you know where we are?
No?
Well, then, IÕll have to tell you.
WeÕre in the cafe in a BorderÕs bookstore. Could be anywhere in the US. ItÕs Thursday afternoon, so even though itÕs raining, there are only two customers.
Surprised? Oh, I get it. You donÕt think this is the right place for a story to start. You think all stories start somewhere moreÉ exciting. True?
Silly. Bookstores are the home of stories. TheyÕre temples of stories. Libraries are better, but bookstores are just about as good as you can get.
So: the people. One of them (blueberry muffin, small espresso) is a man: slim, just under medium height, with neatly trimmed red hair and a pleasant face. He could be a college professor, or a psychiatrist, or a writer (if you didnÕt know too many writers). That kind of face. He is reading Great Expectations.
The other person, as you might expect, is a woman, but put all thoughts of shy, beautiful girls in glasses right out of your head. This woman (herbal tea, cranberry scone) is plain. In fact, itÕs her only distinguishing quality. (ÒWhat did the woman look like, Officer?Ó ÒPlain.Ó) The only thing she has in common with the Hollywood version of herself is the glasses.
Which is not to say that sheÕs ugly. Quite the opposite: her eyes are a clear, pleasing shade of blue-green, her complexion is good, and if she wasnÕt scowling, her face might be pleasant.
She is reading Les Miserables, and humming softly under her breath. The song, which was common during the French Revolution, is almost unheard of today, so when the man joins in, she is understandably startled.
ÒExcuse me,Ó the man says when they finish the verse. ÒThis isÉ have we met before? You look so familiar.Ó
The woman looks at him. SheÕs dealt with her share of pushy men in her time, and dealing with this one would be no problem, but something makes her pause.
ÒPossibly,Ó she says. The man pauses for a long time before speaking again.
ÒWas it at a party?Ó
ÒI donÕt go to parties,Ó she starts to say, but he overrides her, something that hasnÕt happened in a while.
ÒYes, it was. I remember. You were wearing a blue dress and some kind of necklace, andÉÓ He trails off. They stare at each other.
ÒI think we might have had aÉ friendÉ in common,Ó she says slowly.
ÒTall guy, black hair, looked like he didnÕt get out much?Ó
ÒÉYes.Ó
He smiles suddenly, stands up. ÒI donÕt think we were introduced. IÕm Robert Gadling.Ó
ÒLydia.Ó
ÒJust Lydia?Ó
ÒNo.Ó
ÒAll right. Mind if I join you?Ó
Lydia (all right, weÕll call her that for now) bites her lower lip and thinks for a while. About funerals. About dreams. About old friends.
About stories.
ÒAll right,Ó she says.
And I suppose youÕre going to ask how I know this.
Silly child. I was there. Nobody saw me, which was a not unpleasant change, but I was there. I saw everything.
I donÕt usually do this stories thing, but thereÕs a pleasing symmetry to this one. I like symmetry. I like things to be neat. It makes it so much more fun for me to meddle with them.
Now go. Maybe IÕll see you again.
You hope so, anyway.