Bea's Friend

I look up and see him entering the café.

I remember the first time; how my heart beat wildly and I had to remind myself I was married, whilst a neon sign flashed on and off in my head, screaming, "INSANELY GOOD-LOOKING! INSANELY GOOD-LOOKING!". 

I remember wishing, "Please don't be her friend! Please don't be her friend!", until he came up to our table, grasped her hand in both his, kissed her cheeks, and greeted her in their mother tongue. Then all I wanted - desperately wanted - was to be able to speak those words he loved with his tongue; to understand the jokes he made in his loud, warm voice. I wanted to cause the laughter lines I saw beside his eyes to deepen, wanted to hold his attention, and with it, his dancing eyes. Wanted to thrill and flush under his unwavering gaze. With those eyes. Brown and kind. And simply impossible to turn away from. I couldn't tell if he liked me; I didn't have the facility with language. I could have sung to him lovers' trills, my tongue lilting around archaic expressions of everyday themes, notating my desire through ancient arias. But Bea, beautiful Bea, she of the laughing eyes and easy attraction, with her soulful voice I wanted to match, she said the words I knew were not common parlance. The idioms were strained; strained like my eagerness, tugging against the leash of my restraint: the ring on my left hand. 

Anyway, this was Bea's date. 

They laughed on, at ease with each other, while I wondered why I was there, tempted and teased by someone perhaps unaware. Bea had invited me, so I was happy to observe, occasionally laughing when she or her doting dad, animated on the sofa beside me, would translate some joke into my understanding.

But I wanted him to myself. 

I prayed, later, against my own vows, for God to give me chance alone with this gorgeous stranger. I casually said goodbye, walking alone up the café's sloping drive, hoping he would catch me up, deliberately not turning back. I wanted to appear adventurous and exciting, nonchalantly swinging my motorbike helmet in my left hand. He caught me up, and asked if I had a motorbike. I explained my helmet was for boda rides, hoping he was impressed nonetheless. We cut through the grass and dust, avoiding the busy cars, and headed towards the mall.

He gave me his hand and pulled me up a dirt bank my gripless sandals couldn't manage. I wished I weighed less. He asked about my home, and I misunderstood, thinking he was asking how long I would live in this country, foreign to us both, but beloved of him and loathed by me. He interrupted and clarified his query, and I understood. He asked if my home was near. I couldn't gauge my position. What was he really asking me? Uncertain, and not wanting to appear foolish, but still needing to articulate my desire, I suggested we exchange numbers. I liked the sound of his name from his own lips. 

In further stilted English he told me of his next movements, ambiguous to my feverish mind. 

We shook hands and he left.

Like a ship keeling to the massy storm, I reeled and flailed for balance. 

He got me off-kilter. I was out of my depth in uncharted waters, sinking fast. My mind raced over his words, unable to grasp hold of any sentiment or phrase that would right me again. And so I capsized in a dry shopping mall.

I wandered around for half an hour, my thumb on his contact, pleading with the same God - this time in favour of my vows - to deliver me from this gorgeous stranger. I puzzled over his words - why did he tell me he was going to shower? I longed to know his culture, to interpret his text and subtext. Thinking of reasons to call him, but feeling unsure of his meaning, I eventually called home. Relief flooded me, pushing back the wave of desire.

So I have reached today. A year on, sporadic messages have left me still uncertain, still intrigued. His last messages, typical of the push-pull with which I now associate him, are endearing and slightly odd:

"This is who?"

Stormie, of course.

"Sorry. My phone is with a problem. We meet on Saturday?"

Yes. 

Hearing nothing more from him, I have assumed he will come. I am relieved to see him now. He stands in the doorway, filling the frame, his mask lowered. His face is relaxed. He surveys the tables. His eyes alight on mine. Those same intense eyes. I raise my left hand, ignoring my ring. He gives a slight smile, walks my way, extends his hand. He grasps my hand in both his, says his name. The physical contact ignites the old thrill, and my neck warms.

We sit, he asks what I would like, and it hits me: he doesn't recognise me. 

How does he not know I am Stormie, the sender of all the cute cat photos? I have no interest in cats, but he is a vet. I thought we bonded over the cat stuck in my neighbour's tree, and drifted because COVID-19 meant he couldn't come back to the city. 

He speaks slowly and with deliberation: this is not his mother tongue. We share the same appetisers from a year ago, but he makes no mention of any other occasion. He merely asks, "This is good, no?", to which I agree, too enthusiastically. 

Our "date" ends, and he escorts me up the same drive, the same motorbike helmet made in his country dangling from my wrist. We walk and chat towards the mall, him pulling me up the same slope my same gripless shoes still can't manage. I weigh less. He doesn't notice. Inside the mall, I feel myself sinking. I surface for air, again clueless as to his feelings. I want to extend our time together, want to ask him how he doesn't recognise me; want to fathom him. I suggest we should exchange numbers. He makes no demur. I tilt my screen, typing his names in reverse order, still in love with the way his mouth caresses those sounds. I don't want him to see my awkwardness - I have his number already, and he has mine. I don't want him to feel foolish. He types my name, my number, but doesn't seem surprised or recognise the details. His phone is in league with him: it creates a new contact for me. 

He still doesn't know me. He plays out the scene just as he did last year. He tells me he will now shower, before his evening meeting. He takes my hand in both his, lightly kisses my cheeks.

"I shall remember you, Stormie", he says. 

"You are having the name of my kitten. It is good meeting you, Bea's friend!"