The maple avenue in the northern
part of the park had been his personal haunt for years, being the only place in
the city where he could get any work done. His dorm room was always haunted by
his roommate’s girlfriends. His friend, Rick, was in the Chemistry department;
the last time he had tried to work in his room, an accident had resulted in a
gaping hole through his copy of Tennyson’s poems. Drake Johnson always managed
to hunt him down in the library and the cafeteria was an invitation for
disaster. Here, he had always managed to find a measure of peace, enough to sit
and concentrate on his literature, until this girl had invaded it a fortnight
ago.
Her presence had irritated him at
first. Not only did she occupy his spot, she also brought her dalmatian along
with her. It always eyed him so thoroughly, growling lowly in its throat, as if
sizing him up to see who would win in a fight if he tried to chase it and its
owner away. Once, when he had made an aggravated face at it, it had barked
loudly at him, making him scramble backwards and grab for his books. The girl
had reined it in, apologizing profusely, and had offered to leave if she was
bothering him. To his surprise, he had let her stay.
They had settled into a seeming
routine for the next week or so. He would be annotating his paper on ‘Tristan
and Isolde’ and she would be tapping her feet to whatever song was playing on
her iPod. He was always there before her, drinking a cup of the strongest
espresso he could get. She would join him a few minutes later, give him a
polite smile of acknowledgement and sit on the opposite bench, swaying silently
to her music.
He didn’t have the best track
record with girls; every crush he had ever had had ended up dating his friends
or the bullies who enjoyed beating him up in gym class. On his own part, he
would get so shy around a pretty girl and his mouth would run a mile a minute
in defense, and he would end up spouting streams of trivia until she made an
excuse to leave.
His roommate hadn’t taken long to
deduce that there was a girl in his life. How he figured it out, he would never
find out. He figured that it was something about serial daters in general: they
could always find out when evasive answers translated into a female.
“Who is she?”
“I told you, Dave, there isn’t
anyone.”
“I’ve known you for two years and
I’ve known nerdkind for longer. You’ve got it bad, man! Is she pretty?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Aha!” He had pointed a triumphant
finger at him. “I knew it! Come on, what’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been mooning after the girl
for two weeks and you don’t know her name?”
“I haven’t been mooning!”
Dave had caught the book he had
thrown at him. “You leave at the same time every day and come back looking like
a plastered arse. You’re practically stalking her!”
“I am not stalking!” he had snapped.
“And how do you manage to unstick yourself from Lisa long enough to see me
leave?”
“Lisa…is that her name? Oi, keep
your books to yourself!”
“Moron.”
“You’re worse.” Dave’s face became
serious as he grabbed him by the shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “Look
here, if you don’t man up and go talk to the girl, someone’s going to take her
before you even get the sense to try.”
He knew that he was in a bad state
when Dave’s words made sense. He had moved more hesitantly that day when he
left his dorm room with his laptop bag and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets
under his arm. He had been so deep in thought that he had tripped and spilled
half his usual espresso into a potted plant outside the coffee shop, narrowly
missing a woman and her baby.
I’m a goner, he had thought hopelessly as he sputtered apologies
to the outraged woman and fled. He had taken a breath and stopped in front of a
shop window. Turning to face his reflection, he had straightened up to his full
lanky height, fixed his tan corduroy jacket over his sweater vest and tie. Checking
his reflection in a shop window, he had puffed his chest out and smoothed back
his wavy hair. Plastering on a confident grin, he had practically strutted all
the way to the local park. When he had reached his usual bench, she was already
there. She had glanced at him and smiled.
His own smile faltered as he felt a
sensation in his chest like a deflating balloon. She looked even prettier than
usual with her brown hair tumbling loosely over her shoulders, held off her
face with a tartan headband to match her scarf. He threw her a shaky smile in
reply and pretty much scurried to his own bench.
I can’t do this, he thought miserably. Her headphones were in her ears
again and her fingers swayed like a conductor’s baton on her lap. Her dark Rayban
sunglasses prevented him from knowing whether she was watching him or if her
eyes were closed. He wondered what kind of song she was listening to. Maybe she
was listening to old fashioned Billie Holiday or Gershwin, or perhaps, boy band
love ballads from the 90’s. Perhaps, she was one of those quiet girls who loved
AC/DC and Metallica or a closet rap or heavy metal maniac. Maybe she was
listening to a Mozart harpsichord piece or a Schubert violin composition. He
silently hoped that she wasn’t into goth music or Justin Beiber.
“What are you listening to?” he
found himself asking. Immediately, he clapped a hand over his mouth, cursing
himself for letting his thoughts slip out.
She raised her brows quizzically
and took off her headphones. “Excuse me?” Her voice was pleasantly musical.
“I was wondering,” he stammered,
“what are you listening to?”
“Oh,” she smiled and extended her
headphones. “Do you want to hear?”
He blinked. “That’s all right?”
“Sure. Here.” He closed his laptop
and moved over to sit next to her, keeping an agreeable space between them. Her
dog gave him a suspicious look, but she patted it on the head and it dropped
down again, though keeping an eye on him. He took her headphones from her and
pulled them over his ears.
He smiled lightly to himself as the
gentle, yet powerful strains of a symphony concerto wafted through his ears. As
the orchestra played, a piano thrummed strongly in a haunting tune. He took off
the headphones and handed them back to her.
“Very nice,” he found himself
grinning. “What is it?”
“Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no. 2
in C Minor,” she replied, taking her headphones and placing them in her lap.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s one of my favorite pieces. You
like classical music?”
“I like listening to it, yeah. Do
you play anything?”
“Yes, the piano. I’m a music
student; my orchestra is working on this piece.”
He raised his brows, impressed. His
breath caught lightly in his throat as he recalled the powerful drumming of the
piano in that piece. An image floated into his mind: her attired in a long
black dress, her fingers moving with unerring skill over the ivory keys of a
grand piano while the orchestra behind her struggled to keep up with her pace.
“Wow,” he replied slowly,
swallowing audibly. “I was in my school band once,” he quipped.
“Really? What did you play?”
“The triangle,” he said with a
sheepish grin. She laughed merrily at his embarrassed tone; he found himself
smiling at her chuckling. Oddly, he did not feel mocked as he would probably in
any other situation.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” he flustered,
offering her a hand. “I didn’t introduce myself! I’m Arthur, Arthur Grayson.”
“Nice to meet you, Arthur,” she
replied pleasantly, lifting her own hand to shake. He grabbed it nervously.
“I’m Gwen.”
“Gwen,” he tested the name on his
tongue. “Is that short for something?”
She raked her fingers through her
hair in a sheepish gesture. “Guinevere,” she admitted, “but don’t tell anyone.”
“Why? It’s a pretty name.”
“A mite bit old fashioned,” she
shrugged. “I used to get teased for it. My parents are big fans of literature.
They get their switching fancies from time to time. If I had been born a few
years earlier, I might have been Arwen, from…”
“The Lord of the Rings,” he
completed, nodding. “Arwen is a good name. They could have named you Galadriel.”
“Gorgeous name, but imagine going
through high school with that.”
Arthur grimaced. “I can imagine. So
your mum and dad fancied L’morte d’Arthur. Good taste.”
“You read a lot, I presume?”
“I’m a lit student,” he replied.
“Reading is a part of my job description.”
“Really?” Her face seemed to light
up as she scooted around to face him more properly. “What are you working on
right now?”
“Well,” he said cautiously, “right
now, I’m working on a paper describing female archetypes in fifteenth century
literature, mostly from the King Arthur legends, old mythology and related
texts. I also have another paper regarding my personal interpretation of Goethe’s
Faustus regarding the relationship between Faust and Mephistopheles. I’m also
working on a little extra credit project about Shakespeare’s sonnets and his
fascination with the iambic pentameter.”
He bit his lip slightly after
finishing his explanation. Most girls blinked blankly at him, called him a nerd
or became obsessively romantic. Instead, Gwen gave an interested nod and a
cheeky grin.
“I bet you barely sleep with that kind of workload. It explains your need for strong
coffee. The smell of it fills the whole avenue! It’s how I can always tell when
you’re coming.”
He blushed and hid a smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said airily. “So
what female archetype do I fit into?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied
honestly. In truth, he did not know if she could be categorized as easily as
the women of literature. There was something about her that interested him to
no level.
“Spoilsport,” she teased.
“You might just be an archetype of
your own,” he said airily.
“If you say so,” she shrugged, her
lips twisting in amusement, “King Arthur.”
“I do say so,” he shot back,
startled at his own boldness, “Queen Guinevere.”
Her cheeks colored a faint pink at
his retort and he felt like kicking himself. He opened his mouth to stutter an
apology, but held himself back and instead, plucked up his courage and asked
pointedly, “So, does Queen Guinevere like coffee?”
“No.” His heart sank at her abrupt
reply and he shifted a bit away from her, his face coloring in embarrassment.
She seemed to notice because she cried, “No, it’s not like that! It’s just….”
“Just what?”
“Arthur,” she said slowly, “you’re
nice, really. I’m just not used to this. Sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most boys…don’t really like me.”
“I don’t get how. You’re very…interesting,”
he said lamely.
She laughed before sobering. “Did
you ever wonder why I wear shades in the autumn?” she asked slowly.
“No,” he replied warily. “I thought
you just liked them.”
Gwen reached up and took them off.
Her face looked brighter and lovelier without them; he quietly wondered why she
kept them on. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned to face him. Her irises
were a bright summer blue, but the dots that were her pupils were milky white.
“You’re…”
“Blind.” She turned away from him.
“But how do you play the piano?” he
asked in bewilderment. “How do you know about books?”
“I wasn’t born blind,” she replied.
Her shoulders seemed to hunch inwards. “I was a bit of a prodigy on the piano
and have an eidetic memory; those help. And my parents used to read to me a
lot.”
“I see.” She looked so fragile,
like a lost child. The world was as unfair as those in books; she was too sweet
a person to be so sad. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Well, if Queen Guinevere
doesn’t like coffee, then what does she like?”
“I can’t see, Arthur. Doesn’t that
bother you?”
“King Arthur can see enough for
both of them and can help her where she needs it, as long as the Queen’s dog
doesn’t decide to rip his leg off.”
She threw her head back and
laughed, the sound reverberating in their maple avenue like a lark’s call. He
found himself grinning foolishly.
“Queen Guinevere likes macaroons.”
she replied, beaming at him. “Chocolate macaroons and black tea, and she knows
a wonderful place to get them.”
He stood up and took her arm,
looping it gallantly around the crook of his own. “Lead the way then, and don’t
put those back on,” he stopped her as she was about to wear her shades. He
blushed. “You look nicer without them.”
“You do know how things ended with
Arthur and Guinevere, don’t you?” She beamed teasingly as she stowed her
Raybans away.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Then,
I’m glad that no person goes and names their kid Lancelot.”
