He was already rounding the corner by the time he heard the door thump closed. Stopping only once he knew he was out of her sight, he leaned on the wall for support. That was a little faster than he should've been going for the sake of his knee; as it was, It was throbbing in warning. He sighed.
What were you thinking, John Bates? You really must have been out of your head, or out of caffeine at the very least. What's gotten into you, talking with a woman like it's nothing? Chatting like it's something you actually do? For goodness sake, you've never even been in that shop before. You drink the same damn cup of coffee every day at the kitchen counter. And here you've gone and wandered in there? You were flirting. Well, with any luck maybe she didn't take it like that. She couldn't have, right? You're sorely out of practice, maybe it just sounded like polite small talk. She's far too beautiful for you anyway. Why would she be interested? A guy can dream though. She doesn't think you're a fool, she said as much. How would she know? If she did, she definitely wouldn't want anything to do with you. He was nothing more than a fool just trying to stay afloat.
He shrugged, kneading his leg for a moment. He had to admit to himself it was really nice to finally speak with her—not that he expected anything to come of it at first, it's just that his curiosity had finally won out. He knew she worked there, and probably owned the place from what he could tell.
He flexed his knee a few times before heading back off down the way to the tube.
When you're as predictable as John Bates, you do the same thing every day. You see the same people. You take the same route, drink the same coffee with the same toast at the same kitchen counter every day. And in all of the monotony, she was the anomaly. He didn't like that word, though. It made it sound like he didn't appreciate the departure from the same old, same old. Quite the opposite.
Most days he found himself looking for it wherever he went, because that's how she appeared to him. At first, it took him by surprise. A glimpse of her hair flaring out behind her caught his attention as she ducked into the lift of their building. Then the same locks signaled to him from the row of mailboxes as he passed her unnoticed on his own way to the lift. Another day, he was handing in his rent as she jogged past him. He heard the rapid tap of her feet descending the stairwell and he was just too slow to catch the door for her. Apart from being much too quick for him, she was fully engrossed in keying something on her watch. People do everything from those things now, it's not like how it used to be when there was one item to perform one task. She could've been picking out music, firing off an email, trading stocks, sending a message to her boyfriend…
One weekend, he finally got around to organizing some of the junk his mother saved for him. The boxes had been piled up and he couldn't think of any excuse not to handle it. Robert told him to take the day off to enjoy himself. That man should know him better by now. Every now and then John finds himself coerced into "enjoying" himself and taking time to "find someone" because "it's high time." John didn't want to hear it anymore, so he begrudgingly took the day and "didn't work." The dust swirled around him so furiously he hadn't realized how long it had been since the shelves had been tended to, or any part of his flat for that matter. After a fit of sneezes, he turned away towards the window and there she was. The bench on the edge of the park across the street always looked welcoming, and with her on it, he couldn't think of a better place in the world. Any other time he witnessed her, she was always sharing a kind word with someone in passing, always smiling. It was enchanting. As much as she made time for people, it was two-fold for dogs. Heaven help the person who thought they'd get an uninterrupted jaunt with their dog. He had seen her get down on a knee for no less than 10 dogs since he'd been aware of her.
A few days ago, he had just turned the key to his mailbox. Tucking the usual pile of things that were going to end up in the trash under his arm, he started to close the little door when he heard a voice behind him. Bright. Beautiful. Foreign, and yet he knew exactly who it belonged to.
"Hello! I've been meaning to talk to you," she said.
He'd never spun so quickly in his life. It was her, he was right. His mouth was so dry, but he took a breath to answer…and then deflated.
"…no, no, no, it's not a problem at all," she continued as she adjusted her earpiece and kept walking out the door.
He turned away almost as quickly as he had when she took him by surprise. Just in case she was looking, though he highly doubted she was, he didn't want her to see the redness rushing up his neck.
"Goddammit," he muttered.
His head shook as he berated himself for thinking she was actually approaching him. He wasn't entirely sure how the idea of it made him feel. It was strange to feel the crush of disappointment and the tremendous relief to realize it wasn't him she was addressing. It made him panic in the moment that the interaction he'd craved for some time could happen. He wondered how it was possible that someone could sound like sunlight.
They were so opposite. She was charming, and he spent his days wanting to crawl into a cave, but that didn't stop him from wishing. He needed more.
When he started his walk that morning, he hadn't exactly planned on walking in. He'd seen her there countless times through the window as he passed: a flash of her blonde hair popping up and about near the counter, flitting between the coffee machines and trays.
Something about the day felt different. Something in him. Something about her, perhaps. The warmth he could almost feel from the outside looking in, the glow of the fireplace, the smell of freshly baked everything seeping out from the edges of the building, and the desperation for a hot cup of something to see him on his way. He needed to see her.
And now he is obligated to return. That's another word that isn't quite right. Obligations imply duty and this he would do with joy and, quite rightly, a good deal of terror. There were about a thousand "what ifs" and "should nots" he could list to talk himself out of it altogether, but if he was honest with himself, he was tired of being predictable and even more tired of being afraid.
The pastry bag crinkled in his pocket when he took his seat on the train. He exhaled. If he didn't clear his mind before he got into work Robert would sniff out what rattled him in a minute. He pulled out the gingerbread leg from the bag and considered it for a moment. He thought of her, chuckling to himself. He had to know more; he needed to see her again. I must be out of my head.
The doors slid shut. He took a bite and had to hold back a groan.
"Oh my God, that's good."