Next Saturday, after another week of final essays and exams and weird opening and split shifts, I’m admittedly on the lookout for Ben as I work.
It’s silly, I know. He’s provided great material for the occasional self-indulgent daydream because who doesn’t like lusting after rock stars? Especially when they don’t know they’re being lusted after, which is really for the best.
Around London, I’ve seen posters for his band’s gig last night. For a wild moment, I thought about going, but I decided in the end that might come across as too weird, even though he went to my gig. Plus, I can’t afford the ticket right now, with Christmas coming up on top of everything. I’ve got rehearsal tonight for the third time this week anyway, which means less time to do all of the things that need doing.
Which is fine. I’m not on the market for dating in my self-imposed exile. I’m broke. I’m too busy. Besides, I’m no good with relationships, and I don’t have time to get good at them. Not till I’ve finished my degree.
What would be the point of meeting him again other than to give a spike in my libido? Even if I went to the gig, he wouldn’t know I was there, and only in my wildest fantasies would Ben Campbell pick me out of a crowd and think to himself,right, I’m having a big night out with some random barista.
In fairness to me, I do make a mean latte. One worth remembering.
Plus, who says I could even get a ticket from a scalper? It was a sold-out gig. I couldn’t keep myself from checking for tickets, despite the loud voice of reason. Why did I do that? I don’t know.
Past me would have drunk to oblivion to not worry about it but current me has supposedly turned a page and, again, I can’t afford to drink like that even if I wanted to.
Outside, it’s sleeting sideways. There’s the promise of snow today, and the Saturday shoppers stay warm for the moment in the shops, hunting for the perfect last-minute Christmas or Hannukah or other festive gift. Though they ought to be frightened by what flurries might do to London transport.
To be fair, there’re a lot of times the tube or train schedules get messed up, even without snow. Hell, the wrong kind of leaves on the tracks and that’s it—public transport becomes a distant memory, and everyone panics trying to get home on the last buses and tubes. But even with the threat of foul weather, right now the café has a lengthy queue to the door as people apparently want to warm up more than they want to go home.
I’m only in a partially tragic state for a Saturday morning with a tension headache. I may be running on adrenaline and biscuits, but I’m determined to prove to Jasmine that I can function like a pseudo-normal human. And, let’s be entirely honest, in case Ben comes in again.
This week, I caught myself nearly an hour into a uni lecture before I realized I hadn’t taken in anything because I was too busy daydreaming about him, which was way more important than seeing what Heathcliff and Catherine got up to in reviewing my notes for the exam.
What’s it like kissing a guy with a lip ring?
With a break in the rush, I speculate while I clear tables. Back and forth, back and forth. Bussing isn’t my favorite thing, but someone has to do it. And sometimes I entertain myself by thinking of stories from my classes, the cost of studying literature, or song lyrics.
Inside the café, the windows are steamy with condensation from the warmth inside and the chill outside. The tables are mostly full at this point. Some are tourists traveling during the lead into Christmas, some are locals that I recognize. I gather colorful mismatched mugs and place them expertly on trays, ferrying them back for the others to load into the dishwasher.
Once the empty tables are clean, I neaten up the free magazines and flyers by the café entry, beneath an anemic string of Christmas lights from Poundland, and check out the community noticeboard for events. My band, The Screaming Pony, has a poster up to play another show after Christmas.
We’ve been practicing extra to make sure everything sounds as good as it can. It’s a bigger gig than usual for us, and a lot’s riding on us to not fuck it up. We’re out of luck for extra rehearsal time, now with the Christmas break coming up. Some of my bandmates are scattering to go home to spend the holidays with family outside of London. While I fret over the lack of rehearsal time leading up to the gig, my wandering thoughts are pulled back hard into the present by a wallop of reality.
“I think you might be the boy with the thorn in his side,” says a voice that’s becoming familiar.
Lilting, even.
Startled, I turn. No reasonable person lobs a Smiths reference out of the blue. Of course it’s him, because the universe isn’t done toying with me yet.
“And you’re this charming man?” I counter without missing a beat. “Settle the fuck down, Morrissey.”
Ben laughs, slouchy gray hat over blue-streaked blond hair. This Saturday’s jumper is a pale pink with a white rabbit appliquéd on the front. His long striped scarf is a million colors and looped over his leather jacket. It’s stunning, like him.
I take a moment to absorb the sight of him. He’s definitely the best thing I’ve seen this morning. This week. “Why’d you say that, anyway?”
“Call it another hunch.”
“You saying I’m some kind of crank?”
“Nope. I’m saying nothing like that. Though you were frowning at the posters.”
“I guess that happens sometimes.”
He looks at the posters too, also taking in the one for The Screaming Pony. I could die of embarrassment.
This is your redemption arc, Charlie. Don’t fuck it up. Pretend to be cool.
And if I can’t be cool, I sure as hell can create a diversion.
