Soundtrack to Torment. Julian Clyne

he stammered, unwittingly and rather foolishly because it felt to him like an eternity had passed since they had collided.

      She smiled in response and, after a pause that he left unused, she made to leave, slipping slowly past him.

      “Wuddyaliketjoin-me-for-coffee?” The words spilt out of his mouth as her back was already turned to him. He regretted speaking so fast and without confidence; in fact he was not sure if the sounds had been words at all. Yet, he had felt compelled to get to know her, to bask just a bit longer in the warmth she made him feel.

      She was visibly hesitant but she no longer made any signs of leaving. He continued in an attempt to explain, “Sorry, it’s just… I’m dying for an espresso, you see, and I would much rather have it with you than by myself.”

      For the first time since they had met, she spoke. Her voice was melodious and quiet, comforting yet commanding full attention.

      “I know just the place,” she whispered and gave his arm a gentle stroke so as to initiate the walk.

      Undaunted by the rain, she wedged her way through the labyrinth of black umbrellas which hopped about without consideration. He was no longer aware of the masses of people. He did not see the overexcited tourists in ridiculous plastic ponchos who forced themselves to enjoy the city, who abruptly stopped to point out oddities. He ignored the groups of schoolchildren who made the most of their precious leisure time before having to be home for the family supper. He forgot the grumpy locals who accepted that the spell of rain was longer than expected and rushed to their dry homes for a well-deserved break. He was aware only of her and mechanically followed her every step, enchanted by her elegance. Quite suddenly, having no recollection of the walk there, he found himself in front of the Diodati Rooms. He had never heard of it before.

      She pushed the door and paused on the doormat in order to brush the lingering drops of rain off her coat, her face, her hair. Still in her wake, he saw her smile at him expectantly, as if asking, So? What do you think?, but he could not answer. He loved the place. It was chaotic and eclectic and had the distinct flair of bygone days. The café, like himself, seemed not at all to fit into the bustling hubbub of the city. Yet, there it was. And that this apparition of a woman had led him to precisely this place, which was unknown and yet felt familiar–– it triggered a flood of thoughts in him. He could not explain why, but it brought back all the dreams he had discarded, all the hopes on which he had given up. They seemed possible once again. The reverie was delicious and for some time he indulged in it.

      After he had fully taken in the details of the café, he saw that she was already at the counter. She was chatting with the barista. He could not hear what they said but he noticed the gossipy looks they threw at him. When he finally reached her side, she ordered the drinks: “He’ll have a double espresso,” – it pleased him that she remembered – “and the usual for me.”

      They went to sit by the window, in two cushioned armchairs which, though comfortable, he thought were strangely unsuited for the occasion because she was more than an arm’s length away from him: an unbearable distance for not allowing the innocent flirtatious touch. She slowly stirred her piccolo latte but paid no attention to the cup. Instead, she looked deep into his eyes, and did not once divert her gaze; and he, entranced and enchanted, equally lost himself in the profundities that opened up in her visage. They did not say a word but it was not awkward in the least, for they conversed nonetheless. Eyes peering or narrowing; pupils dilating and retracting; slightly twitching lips; hands reaching for the hair, playing with it; a subtle inclination of the neck: they were far more eloquent than words.

      Their silence was truthful.

      He could not tell how long they sat in the café. His espresso had grown cold, untouched.

      Dusk had turned into night. The rain had stopped. They exited into the thronging streets, and kept their harmonious silence. Tightly holding each other’s hands, they walked aimlessly. He felt an intense need to be as close to her as was possible without tripping over her feet. Suddenly, she stopped on the corner of a street and turned to face him. The embrace surprised him pleasantly in its strength and duration and he refused to break it. He did not want to let go.

      A last look.

      A kiss.

      They parted.

      * * *

      Hours later, he stood outside his flat. He reached into the pocket of his coat for his keys. Something fell out, dropped to the floor. Intrigued, he bent down, unfolded the scrap of paper and read: How lovely to meet you. Laura x

      Autumn’s First Snow

      It was one of those autumn dusks when the time for afternoon coffee coincided with nightfall. It was not all that warm, but the couple had decided to sit on the terrace of the café regardless. He always felt the cold more than she did but he knew that she liked the season for its humid winds and for the smell of moist old leaves in the air, and so he conceded to staying out of doors.

      Their coffees came separately because she had ordered a flat white and he, a pot of filter coffee which it took a long time to prepare. She was going to wait, but he told her she should go ahead, not let her drink grow cold, that would be a shame. He watched her as she drank, chuckled at the milky moustache she did not notice she had on her lip.

      They talked of inconsequential things, of what had happened at work, of the stupid mistakes that same old useless colleague had made again, of a bit of news that had made it into the headlines and no one really knew why. It sparked a discussion, a difference of opinion, a debate. Suddenly –– neither of them could have said, later, who had got on the topic –– they were having a row about who never listened to whom, and vice-versa. They could not even remember what they were bickering over, but they knew that it was not really about that anyway.

      It was true: just then she did not listen to him. Her thoughts wandered. She felt that such empty fights had grown more frequent lately. It was as if they were drifting apart and did not notice.

      A gust of wind swept over the terrace. She breathed in the fresh air and looked up. A veil of brown leaves fluttered out of the darkness above the street lamps and appeared in the light until they fell, one after the other, on the two of them. The moment was serene, unique, ephemeral.

      It was she who said to him, interrupting him, but calmly, lovingly: “Look up, please.”

      He did as he was told. They watched in silence, with their heads in their necks, until he said, into the sky: “It’s this year’s first snow. It’s beautiful.”

      And they understood what it was that pushed them apart. It was like the coffee. For too long they had not really shared moments, had not really experienced things together. They had merely lived side-by-side and only ever looked ahead. Now, together under the spirals and whirls of the leaves, they were reminded of other perspectives and they found each other again, for they knew that they would not want to share such moments with anyone else.