Downstreet November
Alissa Harris
I had first met Julien at a coffee shop in Downstreet London. He wore a rusted, tabby sweater that resembled the soulless colour of my Earl Grey. I was reading whatever pretentious classic college grads praise, hoping and half dreading someone would notice. With what seemed to be no available seats left, he shuffled onto the one next to me, our elbows colliding.
“Sorry,” I said, not meaning it.
“Don’t be. Though you owe me a heartbeat.”
I chuckled despite myself. “So, what have you got there?” he added. I found myself amused that the conversation hadn’t ended already.
“Worst person to ask, honestly. Just some man who thinks a lot of thoughts and dies. Spoiler.”
“Ah, another one where the point is there is none.”
I sank the freshly washed spoon deeper into my mug, the thought of soap possibly entering the drink exciting me in the smallest, most pathetic way. What? It’s not like it tasted like anything anyway. Just another one of those moments where I waited for something with substance or danger to enter my life. We kept forcing conversation, both knowing it was either this or doomscrolling with rain outside that couldn’t even make itself fall.
Hours went by, streetlights emerging as the conversation went from elbow bumping to the state of politicians in our modern day. November’s winter forgives not one. Round and round we went, circling back to the same flat talking points on self-reflection and guilty pleasure films.
“Guess we should go,” he finally admitted after minutes of silence.
“Yeah,” I added while collecting my things. We walked through the streets before reaching my car, the one where you can’t stretch your legs in.
“Same time next week?” He said while watching me. Funny how things always end up as the beginning.
“Hopefully the chairs are taken, if not you might have to bump into my abdomen next time.”
And just before I swung my car door shut,
“Try not to owe me two heartbeats next time.”