Imperfections

I remember that first day in the coffee shop when I met her. She was beautiful, frizzy red curls bouncing, her huge smile crinkling the freckles littering her cheeks. Her face was littered with acne, but she didn't hide it with makeup, unlike the thousands of other girls from our densely populated town.

Her outfits may have been the thing that stuck out to me the most. She'd sew her own smiley-face patches onto her older sister's baggy, worn overalls. She'd always pair those with a long-sleeve top and a black North Face when it was cold out.

Every day, for six weeks, I watched her walk into that coffee shop at nine a.m. sharp, order her vanilla latte, sit down at that same table, pull out her needles and sew and sip. Then, at maybe three in the afternoon, she'd pack up her stuff and leave.

Coffee shops really are the best places to meet new people. Just from sitting and observing people, you know their name, what they do, what they order. Not to sound creepy, but I know everything about every regular at that shop, and they know everything about me. Including frizzy-curly-girl. Including Francesca.

But for six weeks straight, she never noticed me. She always was caught up with her sewing, or on the phone with someone, or talking with one of her friends that she occasionally brought with her. She never even glanced in my direction.

And after six weeks of observing, I gave up. Obviously, if she didn't even know I existed, she wasn't meant for me.

But then, only days later, someone came over to me and tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around to face those familiar frizzy curls and freckles.

"Do you have a band-aid?" she asked with a small, sad smile, clutching her arm.

I blinked, startled for a moment. She really was beautiful, especially up close. Those freckles seemed to jump out at you. Everything about her was vibrant, energetic, moving. She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

"So, do you have a band-aid?" she repeated, interrupting my thoughts.

"U-uh. Yeah," I replied, startled.

"Cool," she said, a playful smirk creeping up on her face. We stared at each other for a moment, before I remembered what she asked me for.

"Sorry, one second," I murmured, reaching into my bag and rummaging for the small first-aid kid I always kept with me.

"Are you a writer?" she asked when I hand her the band-aid, tucking her fiery curls behind her ears.

"How'd you know that?" I said, startled.

She blushed, then nodded towards my computer. "I'm a bit nosy."

"Oh." I shut my computer quickly, then looked back up at her. She was placing the band-aid carefully on her arm.

"You okay?" I asked, and she looked up and pulled down her sleeve quickly, shoving her arm behind her back.

"Yeah," she said, blushing harder.

"Did you poke yourself with a needle or something?"

She nodded, stroking her arm behind her back, eyes clouded and sad. "You could say that."

I frowned a little as I studied her. She seemed inconsistent. Not like how I saw her around her friends those few rare times. She was happy. Content. Or at least, that's how it seemed.

"Francesca!" the worker called, holding out the girl's familiar vanilla latte.

The girl smiled and stuck her thumb towards the counter. "That's me."

"I know." It came out so suddenly, so out of pocket, that I clamped my mouth shut and blushed, internally cursing myself.

She laughed. It was a pretty sound, short, sharp, sweet. "So I guess we've been watching each other, huh?"

She's been watching me? I smile a little back. "Huh."

"I'm gonna go get my coffee and my stuff, but I'll be back."

I nod. "See you soon."

I watched her scurry over to the register, apologizing profusely to the flustered worker, then run over to her stuff and gather up her bags, threads fluttering behind her as she ran back to me.

"You didn't have to rush over," I said, holding back a small grin.

"I just realized we never exchanged names," she said, breathless. "Or numbers, for that matter."

I smiled. "I know your name."

"Francesca," she repeated, holding out her hand. "And you?"

"Tyler," I said, taking it.

We talked nonstop for the next three hours. She showed me all her sewing projects, and I told her about my writing. We had a lot more in common than we realized. We both loved coffee. We both loved the creative arts. We both were loners back in high school. We both had dads who loved music. We both lived with our parents still, and had Italian food at least once a week.

Once the coffee shop closed, we stood outside in the pouring rain, said goodbye, and exchanged numbers. We promised to meet each other there every day except for Sundays, when I went to church and she went to art class.

And every Sunday I didn't see her, I found myself missing her more and more, texting her more and more.

Finally, after maybe another month of talking and sharing talents, I brought myself to kiss her and she kissed me back. It was wonderful, magical, the best feeling. She was perfect, as absolutely perfect as I imagined her to be. As I knew she would be. That was the day I asked her out, and the next day she said yes.

We dated for maybe a month before she showed me her old scars. She brought me home that day, promising to show me her mother's famous tartufo. We cooked for almost two hours, before taking a little break. She took me into her room, which was beautiful, with dark blue walls and shelves of books and vinyls. She had a desk laden with sewing and stitching supplies, and two separate closets, one full of clothes to sell, the other full of masterpieces she particularly liked and chose to keep for herself.

She pulled me down onto her bed and we kissed for a moment, before she broke away suddenly. "I have something to tell you," she murmured softly.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Promise you won't judge?"

"Fran, I love all your imperfections," I murmured, caressing her cheek. "Your frizzy curls, your acne and freckles, your baggy clothes."

Her smile disappeared. "Come on, Tyler, this is serious."

"Fran, you're too uptight sometimes," I laughed, leaning in for another kiss.

She pushed my face away, her voice a low murmur. "I hate it when you talk like that."

"Come on, Fran," I laughed teasingly. "Don't be so sensitive. You have to get used to taking compliments."

"Stop, Tyler," she said, sighing, her eyes averted from my face and her cheeks bright red.

"Okay, okay," I said, putting my hands up in mock surrender. "I promise I won't judge."

She took a deep breath, hesitating. "Maybe it's better if I just show you."

She pulled up her sleeve with a sad smile. I remember staring for only a few seconds, before pulling her face close, taking in her familiar smell of coffee and pasta, and whispering, "I love every single imperfection on your body, Franny. And I'll love them always. Just don't try to erase yourself, 'kay?"

She buried her head in my shirt, pulling down her sleeve and nodding gently.

We spent probably another perfect month together before the incident. We'd hang out and sew together or write together or go for walks in the park. We'd watch horror movies or listen to her dad's old vinyls. I even met her parents two weeks before it happened. We had a lovely Italian dinner together.

They still blame me. But it wasn't my fault.

I replay that night over and over in my head. She called me, like she always does. But instead of being safe and sound in the coffee shop, she was out in the rain. In a thunderstorm.

"Tyler?" her voice was a strangled shout.

"Franny?" I sat up straight in my chair as soon as I heard the rumbling thunder in the background. "Fran, what's going on?"

"Tyler, you don't have to worry about me anymore." Her voice was surprisingly calm for the storm raging around her.

"Fran, what do you mean? Don't be morbid."

"See, Tyler, this is exactly what I'm talking about," she said through another rumble of thunder. "I love you, but..."

"But what?" I said, my voice nearing a shout. "But what, Franny?"

"I just can't be with you anymore," she whispered. I could barely hear her as she spit out her last sentence. "The world hurts me all the time. And I decided I've had enough. But despite all you've done, I don't want to hurt you."

"Fran, what are you talking about? All I've done--?"

"You still don't realize," she says with a sharp, hollow laugh. "It's okay, Tyler. I should never have shown you. You're not sensitive enough. Not mature enough."

"Francesca, stop," I said. "You're scaring me. What are you doing?"

"Tyler, I need to go. And we need to break up. I can't hurt you."

"Franny, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, you could never hurt me---"

"But maybe I will," she said in a whisper.

"W-what?" I stuttered. "Do you need me to come get you? Did your parents do something? Can you just tell me what's going on?"

"I can't," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

"Francesca, you're scaring me, what do you mean---"

"Goodbye, Tyler." Her voice was garbled on the speaker, so badly I could hardly hear her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you."

"Franny, what do you mean, goodbye--?" I whispered as the dial tone beeped.

I never saw her again. That was the last sentence she ever said.

To anyone.

I remember that first day in the coffee shop when I met her almost as clearly as out last conversation. It feels so strange to be here. Even with her absence, the shop is the same, the workers the same, even the same people who come and go.

Only one girl is missing. Only one head with frizzy, imperfect curls. Only my Francesca.

And now I know for sure she wasn't meant for me.