Briefly by the counter.

It was his legs that drew her attention.

He seemed to have put on odd legs as he started the day. One was well calved, the other thinner and shapeless. His shorts – that came to his knees - made their appearance even odder. The one leg of the pants coming just below the knee, the other, cuff backed, fell mid-knee. His black socks, too, differed. The one covering the ankle of the fatter leg was lower than the other; the other, pulled high, exaggerating the thinness of that limb.

Her eyes travelled up his body. The football shirt was of the sort worn by so many men of a certain age who liked one to think they were regular attendees at premier league matches - and fitness fanatics, despite their too round tummies; though he, she noted, lacked the tummy. But the head that peeped above the aged neckline belonged to a much older man. Dark grey hair formed a two inch frill to his bald head and as he moved his head a degree or two she saw that his sideburns and light stubble covered more of his face than his hair covered his head. He was a singularly unattractive man and yet he held a certain fascination. He was smiling cheerfully, openly, inviting the help of the teller behind the counter.

She hadn’t meant to stare. She had been sitting somewhat primly in her neat, going-somewhere-important, colour coordinated outfit, on the plastic-leather chair awaiting her appointment. She had arrived a little earlier than she needed to as parking had not proved as difficult as she had expected. The wait was tedious in the picture less space, and the leaflets of no interest to her, so that she had amused herself making up biographies of the various queueing customers until, that is, her gaze fell on the queer looking chap at the counter.

The teller smiled and nodded her response. There was a familiarity between them; perhaps he was a regular customer. The young woman moved away to deal with some measure he seemed to have needed her to attend to. The man looked around him and saw that she was watching him. He smiled and gave the slightest bow of his head in her direction. She quickly looked away, somewhat embarrassed, and tried to look as if their eyes had meet in what had been (and accidently) just a fleeting glance. She hoped that the colour she felt rising in her had not reached her cheeks. After a moment or two she looked back, in the hope that should he see her so doing he would believe that that was all she had been doing in the first place - allowing her eyes to wander idling among the customers. She saw that he was finishing his business, acknowledging the teller. She shifted in her seat to face a different direction and struck what she hoped was a bored pose. She breathed deeply to regain her composure.

‘Hello,’ said the most attractive voice she had ever heard, a moment later.

With eyes wide with amazement, she looked up to see the curious stranger looking gently, (caringly?) down at her.

‘I saw you looking my way,’ he said with a lop-sided grin. ‘I wondered if we knew each other.’

She stammered, ‘No, no, no. I’m sorry; I was just waiting for my appointment and, and.’ (She thought quickly for a justifiable ‘and’). ‘And, well, my eyes… I must have looked your way without thinking.’ She stopped talking, afraid of sounding rude.

He sat down beside her. Again she shuffled in her seat. The situation was becoming more embarrassing. She couldn’t stand up and walk away, the appointment was too important to leave without attending.

‘Waiting is so wearisome in a place like this. Have you long to wait?’ he asked.

The voice really was most pleasant, the smile calming and kindly.

‘I was stupidly early,’ she said. ’Nothing to hold me up, you know how it can be. But it is now a little beyond my appointment time.’

‘How trying.’ Such a sincere voice.

The manager appeared from her office.

‘I’m so sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said in the way well trained staff address customers they think they need to appease. ‘Would you like to come through?’ An odd thing to say. Not ‘come in’, but ‘come through’. ‘Through’ what? The doorway? A series of offices? A wall, maybe!

 She rose in response and turned slightly to the chap to nod a polite ‘good bye’. He had risen with her.

‘I’ll be in the café across the street,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re done here.’

She tried to look disdainful or at least nonchalant as he turned towards the door to the street and she walked into the office. She smiled to herself. It was quite flattering (perhaps) this queer man with the, oh so charming, voice showing this interest, and a little amusing that he should assume so much without any encouragement. He had a pleasant voice. She had always been drawn by the timbre of a man’s voice. He was an odd looking chap. And that was that: a brief moment and over. She wouldn’t go of course, what a silly thought. Not that he would have meant to be taken seriously; not in the least.

The interview was a more longwinded affair than she had expected; modern privacy laws, corporations’ fear of being sued, not to mention the list of scams which needed to be pointed out, all made the gleaning of simple information a dreary business however friendly the personnel appeared to be. And the refusal of the initial ‘can I get you a coffee?’ proved a grave mistake after the best part of an hour in a small room.

She thanked the woman for her thoroughness and professionalism, shook hands and, gathering her belongings, headed for the street. It was good to get a breath of air. Looking around she thought what a great pity it was that the town council, having made this area traffic free, had not planted a tree or two, or a trough of flowers to brighten the spot. She breathed deeply and turned towards the off-road parking.

‘Hello again,’ said that voice. ‘Please, sit down.’

She hadn’t seen him at the table in the sunshine. She hadn’t expected to; of course not. She hadn’t even glanced towards the café.

She turned without intending to. The queer looking chap with the appealing voice and the inviting smile was smiling his slightly crooked smile in her direction, his eyebrows questioning her, the tilt of his head reinforcing his invitation to – no! his expectation that she undoubtedly would! -  join him.

She sat.

As he signalled to the waitress, he asked her, ‘coffee? Or, no! perhaps you’d prefer one of their lovely milkshakes?’

‘What a pleasant idea,’ she’d thought. When had she last had a milkshake? Years ago. A girlish choice. Despite herself she smiled. ‘Banana,’ was all she said. There was no need to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’; she knew there was no place for such between them.

There were no introductions, no preambles. Despite her natural reserve, her protected privacy, she found herself chatting, yes, natural nattering, to this stranger whose peculiar appearance she should have found abhorrent. Looking down at the table she noted the title of the book he had been reading.

‘Are you enjoying the read?’ she had asked. It was a book she had read, very much enjoyed and would have chosen for her Dessert Island.

‘Not exactly enjoying it,’ he’d replied. ‘But such an interesting story and a unique take’

And their talk simply flowed.

Sometime later, some long time later, after they had talked and argued of books and theatre, of philosophy and travel, and fitness (or lack of it), laughed a lot and pontificated greatly, she heard the church clock strike the hour and realised that she needed, after so very long, - had - to go.

‘Oh dear, look at the time!’ she said. ‘I have enjoyed talking to you. Really. It was pleasant.’ She added the needless ‘thank you’; she had, after all, been well brought up. And this was, after all, their conclusion.

‘I’ll see you next Friday, then,’ he said. ‘Here? Same sort of time?’

 ‘If that’s ok with you?’ he added quizzically.  His eyes told her that it was his hope that it was  ‘ok’ with her. His smile assured her that he believed it was.

She smiled but didn’t answer.

‘Till then,’ he said, in that melodious, nice, voice.

She wouldn’t be there, of course. It had been pleasant. The odd looking fellow had so much to share; they had, surprisingly, so many interests in common even if seen from different angles; so much to give each other, to expand upon. But she wouldn’t repeat the encounter.  Funny looking chap! She smiled to herself; looks could be so deceptive. And that voice! They would not meet again; of course not. She would not go.

Or would she?