Love and Its Discontents

Stories are as distinctive as the people who live them, and the best stories transcend time and space.  So it begins, this story, like most great stories, with a woman, a city, and the hand of fate.

Julian sits on a grassy knoll observing two players in the thrall of an outdoor chess match on a life-sized board.  Checkmate is imminent.  There is no escape for the black king.  The contestant controlling the dark pieces should resign, but is unwilling, circling the board in languid steps, searching for an out.  The crowd sighs, tosses hands skyward in disbelief.  One shouts, "You cannot win!" The contestant is unresponsive, oblivious, detached from his audience, unwilling to see what the spectators see, determined to find what's not there.

Julian feels the tension and wonders why black won't fold.  But then he knows.  He recognizes the fierce determination in the contestant, the illusions.  His detachment with the girl is just as vast, feeling infinite, insurmountable, unbeatable.  He thinks his denial is as portentous as that of the circling contestant.  Black cannot win. To think otherwise is a mirage.

Julian rises from the lush, immaculate carpet of green, leaves the knoll.  The contestant continues to circle the board.  People's lives are lost in the trance of delusion, Julian thinks, as he moves through the historic city of Canterbury, passing the cathedral, the oldest in England.  He turns down a winding lane, brushes against the weeping willows as a gust of wind rattles the drooping branches. The lane curves, snakes alongside the riverbank.  Julian hears the chirping of swallows, smells the wildflowers, crosses an ancient footbridge, pauses at the apex.  He leans against the stone, wonders if he's as delusional as the losing chess player: repeatedly circling, refusing to cave, misreading the pulse of his own heart.  He looks down at the river, watching his shadow, the current surging in silence, his mind preoccupied, unable to shake the girl from his thoughts.

It's been this way since he moved from London three weeks back to attend the University of Kent for his final year of law school.  He goes for stretched, aimless walks, hoping to get away from returning to the one place he wants to be. Ever since he spotted her waitressing at the popular pub near his apartment in the walled city, his decision making vacillates, follows an identical pattern.  Just when he decides he's not going back, he feels something inside breaking, some pull, tugging at him like an undercurrent. But today will be different, he tells himself.  The ridiculous denial of the chess player has strengthened his resolve.

Julian observes the swans, ducks, fighting upstream on the clear waters of the Stour River.  His heart is roaring inside, tugging, pulling again.  He glances at his watch, fidgets, wrangles with his doubts, takes in the birds again.  Their fight inspires something within.  He closes his eyes, pinches the lids with his thumb and forefinger, changes his mind once more.  Today will be no different.  He will return.  He will follow the path of the birds - against the flow, upstream, refusing to cave.

The historic streets look old and purposeless basking in the afternoon sunlight.  Turning onto High Street, he glances toward the sky and notices an encroaching army of clouds choking the blue in the distance.  He speeds his steps, the world tilting beneath his feet, rushes past the corn market, the mansion of the White Friars.  Canterbury's shop windows become a blur of colors as he moves down the King's Mile, through the city inhabited since pre-Roman times.  The city feels timeless, motionless, without gravity.  He think's of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, wonders if its subjects felt buoyant like he does, moving through the enchantment of all that's been before.

Julian reaches the front door of the pub as the first drops race from the sky.  He pauses in the anteroom, hears the clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, SKY Sports broadcasting a Premier League match on the mounted monitors beyond the interior door.  The room is typical European fare; a mirror, wooden coat racks bloated with hats, coats, scarves, all things British.  The pub is packed.  He looks in the mirror, adjusts some strands, gulps deeply.  A deafening roar rattles the mirror, vibrates his reflection.  He sees what he feels, his heart lurching inside.  The walk through the interior door seems like the longest of his life.  He enters to shouts and hugs, raised pints sloshing beer, the packed crowd singing furiously.  Chelsea's fight song confirms the goal that has prompted the roar.

Julian takes a seat in an open booth, reverential, feeling as though he's in the presence of royalty.  The rowdiness subsides as the pro-Chelsea crowd pines for another goal.  He glances around the pub.  Though he doesn't see her, he spots her.  Like wind, he spots her by what she moves.  The twisting heads and contorting necks, the stammering lips and wandering eyes.  Only one happening can bend the crowd's eye away from the soccer match.  Her moving through the pub.  She's impossible to miss. Magical skin, long wavy locks framing a pretty oval face, pouty lips, mesmerizing curves, perfect in contour, provoking reveries of eroticism in men's minds.  Her beauty is hypnotic, having captured Julian the first instant he saw her, and every time since, sending his heart galloping wildly to a place it's never been.

And then she comes into full view.

Julian feels a sensation surge through him, a charge that is half thrill, half panic.  His pulse speeds up in that electric, yet terrible way, as she comes near, takes his order, scribbles, looks up, smiles.  Pure intoxication.  He catches his breath, feels the wetness under his arms.  The butterflies are soaring.  She spins, stuffs the white notepad in the back pocket of her jeans, moves away from the table in spectacular fashion, a bewitching gait, and mercifully vanishes into the thick crowd, allowing him to breathe again.

He has been visiting the pub to catch a glimpse, thrilled to be inhaling the same air as she, spending his meager savings on appetizers and drink, viewing her from a safe distance.  He is stalking and doesn't know why, or pretends he doesn't know why.  He is scared stupid by what he's doing but he can't stop himself.  No force on earth can prevent him from entering the pub.  He is not one to fall in love with a girl over appearance, an expression, a gesture, but in those moments she glances his way, passes near, his heart rockets out of his chest.

Everything about her entrances him.  He notices the little things.  The sway of her long tresses, whipping side to side, as she clears a table.  The beautiful arch of her back while carrying foamed pitchers of hops across the wooden floor to the old drunks clamoring for her, and another drink The reading glasses perched on her nose, her face buried in a book, foot bobbing with delight, her thoughts elsewhere, during her break. On every level, there is a draw for him, and each time he pays the bill, there comes a flicker of sadness, a foreclosure of some sort, his heart sinking inside.

Julian notices that Alexa never seems to bask, take pleasure in all the attention she receives from spellbound men. She seems oblivious to it all, as if she believes beauty is trivial, fleeting, inconsequential in life, undeserved.  He is unaware of what thrills her, what she cherishes most.  Upon waking each morning, she rushes to the nearby orphanage, volunteering, spending the early part of each day with young children. Unbeknownst to Julian, she loves children and hopes to relocate from her native England to some third-world nation, to better the lives of the abandoned.  There is a higher pull, an endless spiritual draw tugging at her heartstrings.  This is why she works at the pub, saving every pence; the tips are enormous.

Julian feels bashful, shy, afraid to strike up conversation beyond the routine obligation of placing his order.  It's unlike him and killing him inside.  He tries to walk away numerous times, each attempt taking a sharp right just before the exit, landing him in the men's room with nothing to do.  He talks to himself in the mirror, exhorts his psyche, splashes his face, takes a million deep breaths, mutters the same lines over and over, and when confident, exits the restroom.  The confidence seeps out with each step back to the booth, leaving him deflated again.  He expects the magnetic pull of her to fall away, to lead nowhere, to cease, for the ice to never break, as it hasn't on all previous visits.  But then, today, like a miracle, it does.  She looks his way, smiles, so brightly, it's a wonder she doesn't set something alight.  She approaches to refill his drink.  Something detonates inside Julian, bursting upward, a feeling defying explanation, spine-tingling.  Their eyes meet, freeze, something otherworldly locked in the gaze.

"Why are you always staring at me?" She asks.

Julian's heart kicks, slams into his throat.  He chokes on his water.  Seconds later, barely composed, he stumbles over his words.

"I'm not staring at you."

"Yes, you are. Every time I look your way, I catch you staring at me."

The discomfort that would normally overtake Alexa in a situation like this is allayed by Julian's noticeable unease.  Alexa finds it amusing, and even endearing, the way he keeps blushing and shaking his head in apology.  His embarrassment, the flushed cheeks, the squirming, charms her in some way.  Unlike most men in the pub, he's free of braggadocio, false bravado, speech stooped in flattery and insinuations.  She leaves, returns with an appetizer of fried Mozzarella, his favorite, leaves again, the sheen of her smile keeping him planted.  Between runs to other tables, some sexist comments, one catcall, she steals glances of him.

His face is now submerged in his law books.  He doesn't dare look up, yet amazingly, he has not left.  This impresses her as she studies him.  He's not completely handsome: the nose a bit small, the hair long and unruly, the jaw not so strong, but his eyes are alive, piercing blue.  He has a fabulous grin, beautiful teeth, and a habit of punctuating his orders with a positive, happy cadence.  And though his face does not enthrall Alexa as those of previous boyfriends, it's a kinder face and, as Alexa will learn, a visible emissary for the attentiveness, the compassion, the enduring goodness that resides within Julian.

Still embarrassed, croaking inside, Julian closes his books, vacates the booth.  He places a few pounds on the table, pays the tab, moves to the door, exits without peeking Alexa's way, his heart plummeting again.  He supposes he should be relieved, but he wants something else.  Perhaps if she had erupted, displayed some emotion, told him she feels uncomfortable, to never come back.  Something definable, like checkmate, no possible out.  Instead, he gets an appetizer and that breathtaking smile lighting up the world.

Julian walks a half block down the cobblestoned street in the dreary drizzle of the British Isles, feeling her absence, his senses still smitten by her aroma.  The air is frigid, and the valve in the clouds loosens.  Raindrops pelt the cobbles, blur the shop windows, ripple windshields, drench his hair and clothes.  He doesn't care; he needs the lashing, the cleansing, an atonement of some sort.  His head is hanging low, knowing he can't go back.  Ever.  The embarrassment of it all, caught ogling, lying like a psychopath.  "I'm not staring at you," how stupid of him.  He feels the force of it, like a thousand daggers, puncturing the life within.  Waylaid, he doesn't hear the sound of running feet, the splashy steps approaching from behind.  Her voice startles him, seizes the air from his lungs.

"I think you owe me a coffee for lying to me."

His heart rumbles, races for the moon.  He's tongue-tied.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear what I said," she says smiling

He knows what he needs to say, but he can't utter a single word.  Cotton mouthed.

"So are we going for coffee?" She asks impatiently.

"Yes." His head nods longer than his monosyllabic reply.

"Only one condition," she says.

"That I pay?"

"Well, that's acceptable, but not the condition."

He stares.

"You're staring at me again."

Dying a thousand deaths, he barely gets the words out, "It's hard not to."

Alexa blushes, feels warm inside, quickly adjusts.

"No more lies," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"The condition ... no more lies; it's a bad way to start something."

Rigid with embarrassment, Julian nods in agreement, his eyes looking away, his lips pursed like a child caught disobeying.  They move wordlessly toward the coffee shop, the rain concealing the film of sweat inching across Julian's skin.  A cool wind sheets the mist against his face as the world dizzies into a blur of feelings he can't identify.

A few steps into the walk toward his new life, he breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry for lying to you."

He pauses, turns her way.  All of what he's about to say, she sees in his eyes.  He feels the words surging, words that have been churning in his mind, pounding his heart, building for weeks, hours, minutes, seconds.

"I stare at you because you're the most beautiful girl in the world, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

To be continued ...