Page 5 of A Wistful Symphony

I stare at the screen for quite some time.

You texted. You actually texted. After ten years, you want to talk to me again.

My chest flutters merrily each time I reread the lines, smiling like a fool.

“Only because it’s you.” We’re off to a good start.

A start of what, exactly? I censor my instinctive optimism.

Too much expectation is a dangerous thing, as I have so harshly learned.

Shaking my head, I snap out of it and type.

Hey! No need to be sorry. I also had a packed week.

But I just finished a job today, so I’m free.

I’m mid-typing on the next line when Delia calls out, exasperated.

“Eric?” she exclaims, as if she’s said my name several times already. “Come on, what is it? Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing,” I dismiss her without raising my gaze. “Just a sec. I’ll get back to you.”

“Yeah, you have that silly smile on for a full minute over nothing. Who’s the guy? Spill it.”

“Sod off, Delia.” Before I can send you the message, she snatches the device from my distracted fingers. “What the—? Come on, are you twelve? Give it back to me.”

I stretch over the table for the phone, but she pulls it out of my reach, growing more excited each time her eyes dart back and forth, reading our brief conversation.

“Is this Andrew? Are you two seeing each other again?” She nearly screams. “Look at that, Mr ‘I Don’t Want a Relationship’! Why didn’t you tell me? That should be the first topic of discussion!”

“Maybe because I didn’t want you to make a scene, like you’re doing now,” I quibble, unsuccessfully trying to retrieve my phone.

“He seems excited to see you. Have you met face to face, or did you find him online? How does he look now?”

“Cordelia, give back my phone, now,” I yell, desperate for you not to think I’d leave you hanging on purpose.

“Fine! He answered you anyway.” She hands it to me, lips childishly pursed at the sound of her proper name.

great! wanna go to the same place as before?

we can go somewhere else if you’d like

I’m sure you know more of these places than I do

Eric? are you there?

Sorry, I’m having lunch with Delia and she was distracting me.

No, Steam & Grind is perfect.

I actually love that place.

oh no worries, am I disturbing your lunch?

you can get back to me later

Not at all! Delia is just being a pain in my arse.

Nothing new there.

lol she’s still the same I suppose

You bet.

is five good to you?

Five is perfect.

see you there

See ya

I tuck the phone away. Delia is still staring as if she could set me on fire.

“Well? How did this happen? Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I try to put it in proportion. “We ran into each other in front of Steam & Grind earlier this week and exchanged contacts. That’s all.”

“All? Eric, that’s huge,” she exclaims, holding the edge of the table. “What are you wearing today?”

“I just set the date. How on earth would I have figured what to wear yet?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, you’re the anxious one.” She frowns. “Wear the blue button-down I picked for you. It has the perfect fit and makes your eyes stand out.” She smirks. “It’s been ten years. He needs to see you at your best.”

“Damn right. And the fancy black slacks?”

“Definitely.” She rests her cheek in her hand and sighs. “I have a gay brother and I’m the one giving him fashion advice.”

“Excuse me if I don’t fit your stereotyped view of how a gay man should act.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, sorry. But seriously, blue shirt, black slacks, long overcoat. And tell me everything when you get back.”

“It’s just a cup of coffee, Delia.”

“Yeah. Your face is all sunshine and rainbows over ‘just a cup of coffee.’” Her spirited grin carves dimples on her cheeks. “I can’t believe you and Andrew are back. I’m so happy for you!”

She’s overly excited about something that will probably never happen. Still, I shake my head and smile. “Thanks, Delia.”

The afternoon sun slowly drenches the bedroom in a warm hue.

I check my watch, worried I lost track of time in front of the mirror in a pitiful attempt to do something different with my hair.

With a sigh, I give up the endeavour entirely.

Although I followed Delia’s instructions to the letter, and the outfit makes me look elegant, there’s nothing to do about the rest. My sleek dark hair refuses to be any shape other than its usual side part, my skin has a sickly tone, and dark grooves of insomnia carve below my eyes.

I calm myself with the thought that you probably wouldn’t care how I looked, anyway, and leave the flat.

The streets are getting crowded as I approach my destination, filled with the merry chatter of people going on a dutifully earned weekend break.

I breathe in the chilly air, hands stuffed inside my coat pockets, and look up.

The sky is surprisingly clear today, the sun colouring its few whimsical clouds in orange and pink, bathing concrete and asphalt in warm shades.

I shake my head, trying not to recall the similar tones on our afternoons by the river, and concentrate on the distant chimes of the doorbell as I enter the cafe.

There’s a small table vacant by the shop window, and I hang my coat on the back of a chair before sitting.

The clock behind the counter shows you still have ten minutes.

My fingers tap a nocturne on the table, trembling slightly with the movement of my restless leg.

Every ring of the doorbell draws my gaze.

First, a group of loud girls enter, then an old man in a tweed coat.

After the third, I’m already panicking in silence, thinking you’d regretted the—appointment?

This is certainly not a date—and stood me up.

Then the bells chime a fourth time.

My breath is trapped within my chest as you walk in, scanning the place with a diffident frown.

I order my heart to quiet down. It has no business telling me this is more than mere reacquaintance.

A long-awaited final stop in an arduous journey.

That’s what I’ve come here for. Closure. Nothing more.

After coming to my senses, I lift one hand, and your expression lightens as our eyes meet.

The setting sun comes through the shop window and bathes your profile in gold.

It instantly makes me think of a melody.

A soft ballad. Mellow cadences in minor tones, following each of your subtle steps until you reach the table. I wish I could write it down.

“Am I late? Sorry, class took a little more time than expected.” You take off your puffer jacket, fingers brushing the old golden cross that never leaves your chest.

“Not at all. I got here early.”

The server promptly offers you the menu. You browse from one page to another, looking utterly lost. I can barely repress a smile.

“Their lemon pies are very good, you know,” I intervene. Otherwise, this could take hours.

“Okay then. Lemon pie and peppermint tea it is.” You turn back the menu and I confirm my usual order to the girl, who seems relieved not to be stuck with our table anymore. “You come here often?”

“It’s one of my favourite places. And it’s only a few blocks from the studio.”

Silence follows. What do you say to the only guy you ever loved after so long? What have you been doing all this time? Where did you go ten years ago? Why did you leave me?

“So, you just came from work?”

Of course, I go for the most boring question.

“Yeah.” You lean with crossed arms on the table, a tad stiff. “Two of the kids got into a fight and I had to sort out the whole thing.”

“That’s something I’d like to see.” I chuckle, not at all able to imagine the scene. Your quiet personality doesn’t inspire much authority. But who knows how you act around them? Who knows how different you are now?

“I didn’t even have time to change,” you say, ignoring my observation. “And you’re all dressed up.”

“This is nothing, really. I came from work as well,” I lie.

“Quite a dress code they have.” You throw me a cryptic grin. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d wear something like that, though.”

“How come?”

“Your sleeves.”

“Oh,” I exclaim, finally getting it. Delia told me to roll the sleeves to my elbows, which should make me look posh or something.

My fingers run over the multiple wrinkles it left on the fabric, remembering how it would have set my perfection compulsions on fire ten years ago.

It still bothers me, but I can tolerate it now.

“ERP therapy works, who knew? For things like this, at least.”

“That’s nice.” You smile back. “You look good in it. It almost seems like you have muscles.”

“Ha-ha.” I fake an annoyed laugh. “Not all of us can look like that, you know?” I point at your toned chest and biceps stretching through your T-shirt, which I’ve tried hard not to stare at since you walked in.

You give a tiny shrug. “Exercise helps with my depression and the urges.”

“Oh.” My playful tone vanishes. “Good thing it’s helping, then.”

“It is.” You reach for your pocket and proudly display a black-plated key tag. “Eight years clean.”

I peer at the sobriety token for a long time, my chest tight with sorrowful memories. Things I can never erase from my mind. I can’t begin to comprehend the battle you must’ve endured—all alone, no less. How I wish I’d been there for you. But you never gave me that option.

“That’s wonderful, Andrew.” My mouth widens as I lift my gaze to you again. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks.” Your face lights up in response.

The server comes with our orders, granting me some precious time to push down the lump in my throat with a sip of medium-roast brew. After taking a bite of my chocolate tart, I change the subject. “How’s the pie?”

“Delicious,” you say with your mouth half-full.

“I know food.”

“You do.” A soft chuckle makes your stomach tremble as you observe me. “Always with a cup of coffee. Some things never change.”

“And some things do.”