Page 2 of Love and Other Paradoxes

“What?” said Joe.

The girl flinched, like he was a timer on a bomb that had just ticked down to zero. When he failed to explode, he saw her

rethink. “What?” she echoed.

He groped for the source of his confusion. “You said, ‘ You .’ Like—like—” He couldn’t find the words. “Like I’m the last person you wanted to see.”

“No, I said, ‘What can I get you ’?” Her fingers were clenched so tight on a napkin that she was tearing a hole in it. “So? Are you going to order?”

“Uh—yeah.” He scanned the chalkboard behind her, barely registering the options. “Can I get a latte, please?”

She punched some numbers into the till with trembling fingers. He paid—it took a while, as she seemed confused by the coins

he gave her—and waited awkwardly for his coffee. When she saw him hovering, she shooed him away. “I’ll bring it over.”

Still reeling, he sat down at the table that looked least in danger of immediate collapse. He took out the Love Poems for Tomorrow flyer and opened his notebook to a blank page. He sat and stared at it, pen in hand, but he couldn’t get the girl at the counter out of his head. She had looked at him like he was something dangerous, something vital. He glanced up, expecting her to be watching him like the tour guide, but she was steadfastly ignoring him, head bent over the espresso machine, braids parted around her slender neck. She looked around his age: he would have assumed she was a student, if having a job during term time wasn’t forbidden for undergraduates.

She was coming over. He looked away. As she leaned to put the coffee down, he reflexively closed his notebook.

She swallowed a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to read your poetry.”

He looked up in surprise. She flinched, like she was afraid of his attention. He felt wounded, and compelled, and so curious

he could barely stand it. “You don’t like poetry?”

She hovered, leaning back towards the counter. He got the impression that she wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible.

He got the second, conflicting impression that she couldn’t resist answering his question. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

“There’s this one guy I had to study at school, and I thought he was so overrated.”

“The stuff they make you learn in school is always the worst. I think there’s some kind of rule. Only shite poets end up on

the syllabus.”

“Mmm.” Her cheek was trembling, like she was fighting some strong emotion.

“But you shouldn’t let him put you off,” he continued. “There’s some great stuff out there.”

“Oh yeah,” she said in the same unreadable tone. “I bet some of the best people haven’t even been published yet.”

He tilted his head, unsure if she was mocking him. “Right.”

Her cheek twitched again. She looked away, briefly closing her eyes. Seeming to recover, she cleared her throat. “I guess I don’t get the point of it. Poetry, I mean. Like, why not just write a song?”

“You wouldn’t be asking that if you’d ever heard me sing.”

Her smile, mobile and generous, transformed her face. She crossed her arms over her shapeless black sweater. “Okay. So poets

are just tone-deaf songwriters?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I mean, I could go off on one about how lyrics are always parasitic on the melody, and how in

poetry, the music comes from the language itself. But that would be a boring, pretentious rant, and no one wants to hear that.”

“Right.” The gap between her front teeth gave her smile a conspiratorial sweetness, like they were sharing a private joke.

“That’s why you’re not going to say it.”

“No. And also, because it’s not really the point.” He leaned forward, no longer conscious of his body, following the pull

of her thoughts on his. “The point is, when I’m feeling something, poetry is how it comes out. And when it goes right, it

doesn’t feel like I’m trying,” he went on, aware he was describing something he hadn’t experienced in years. “It just feels

like it happens.”

She was watching him with wide-eyed attention. He couldn’t tell if she was fascinated or appalled. He scrubbed a hand through

his hair, laughing. “I’m sorry. I probably just sound mental.”

Her face relaxed. She turned to the window. “No. I get it,” she said, sounding surprised. “I mean, it’s not poetry or anything,

but I—make stuff.”

“Really? Like what?”

She indicated the window display.

He looked back at her, delighted. “That was you?” She nodded, that smile still playing around her mouth. “No way. I mean—that’s

the reason I came in here.”

“Of course,” she said with strange brightness. “Because of all the cafés in all of Cambridge in the blessèd year two thousand and five, you had to come and write your poetry in the exact one I happen to be working in.”

He laughed uncertainly. She laughed back, her eyes wild. It was clear there was a joke he wasn’t getting, but he wasn’t sure

if he cared. Smiling, he looked down to his notebook. He had moved his pen unconsciously, making a mark on the otherwise blank

page.

“Wait.” He looked up. “How did you know I’m writing poetry?”

A flash of panic. She twisted a braid between her fingers. “You just—seemed like the type.”

“Really?” His visit to the Wren Library must have paid off: clearly, he was projecting Byron from every pore. “What makes

you say that?”

She looked him up and down. “The hair.” Her fingers made a chaos gesture that moved downward. “The coat that looks like you slept in it. The—I don’t even know what to say about the jumper.”

It had been a Christmas present from his auntie: hand-knitted, with a naive seascape of boats and little clouds. “Okay,” he

said. “Jesus.”

“Sorry. You asked.” She said it with familiar ease, as if she had known him for years and was frankly a little exasperated

with him by now. It was jarring, and inexplicable, and he didn’t entirely dislike it. “Anyway. Enjoy your coffee. I’m going

to...” She made a vanishing gesture.

Before he could think of anything to say to keep her there, an older woman appeared behind the counter. “Esi,” she called.

“How long has the till been out of paper?”

Esi cast a comically adrift glance at Joe, as if the question was ridiculous. “It needs paper?”

“Of course it needs paper! How else is it supposed to print receipts?” The older woman shook her head, retreating into the back office. “Honestly. You seemed so articulate when I hired you, but you don’t know the most basic things.”

Esi’s jaw clenched. “Right,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice we’d run out of dead trees to squeeze

crushed-up rocks onto, so when we put the shiny tokens into the counting machine, people can take home a physical reminder

of how much their coffee cost.” She marched behind the counter and picked up a battered shoulder bag. The other barista, a

girl with close-cropped Afro hair and a Homerton MCR T-shirt that identified her as a postgrad student, rolled her eyes in

solidarity, but Esi didn’t acknowledge it.

“Make it fast,” called the manager from the back. “And less of the attitude.”

Esi stared at the office, murder in her eyes. Then she walked out, pulling the door neatly closed.

Joe didn’t think. He shut his notebook, downed the rest of his coffee, and went after her.

She whirled on him, looking panicked. “Why are you following me?”

He stepped back. “I’m not following you. I mean—I am, but I was just...” He took a breath, began again. “I’m heading back

to town, so I thought we could go together.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “Deev.”

“What?”

“Um. I said—Good. It’s really unbelievably good , fantastic , and brilliant that you of all people have decided we should go together .” She looked anxiously over his shoulder. “What’s the time?”

He checked his watch. “Half twelve.”

“Lunch break,” she said under her breath. “Fine. Let’s make it quick.” She set off, keeping a few paces ahead.

He faltered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but—I get the message. I’ll leave you alone.”

She stopped. He could see the tension in her, a taut line running across her shoulders. “You didn’t do anything.” She waved

a hand at herself. “I do this. Take shit out on people when it’s not their fault. It’s one of the many things wrong with me.”

He took a step closer. “Are you okay?”

She turned to face him. “No,” she said, with a hoarse laugh. “No, I’m really not.” Her eyes focused, as if she was seeing

him for the first time. “Thank you for asking.”

“Esi, is it?” She nodded. “I’m Joe.”

“Hello, Joe ,” she said, with a strange, desperate smile.

She really was extremely odd. He was relieved. It took the pressure off him to be normal. “So, can I walk with you?”

“Sure.” She made an extravagant gesture of surrender. “But if you’re anywhere near me in half an hour, I’m making a run for

it.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking, but he was starting to get used to that feeling. “So, was that your manager?” he asked,

doing a fair impression of a person who fell into conversation with attractive strangers all the time.

“Yup,” she said, the syllable loaded with distaste.

“She shouldn’t treat you like that.”

“She’s doing me a favour. Giving me a job off the books, paying me in cash.” She looked away. “I’m not exactly here legally.”

“Really? You sound like you’re from London.”

“I will be, if you wait around long enough.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“No, I’m sorry. Ignore me.” He couldn’t have ignored her if he’d tried. She was a flutter of nervous motion: eyes darting, head turning, like the world might end if she stopped paying constant attention.

“So how long have you been in Cambridge?” he asked.

“A few weeks.”

“How do you like it so far?” He cringed even as he said it. He sounded like a phrase book.

“Honestly? People are kind of rude. And everything’s expensive. But it’s okay. I’m not staying.” She paused to peer through

the window of a whole foods shop; apparently disappointed, she kept walking. “I’m here till the twenty-third of June. Then

I’m gone.”

He wasn’t surprised. It put words to the way she carried herself: unanchored, like her feet weren’t touching the ground. “What’s

happening on the twenty-third of June?”

“Something important.” Her eyes glanced off him. “Family stuff. Okay? It’s not actually your business.”

“Okay,” he said, chastened. “Sorry.”

In silence, they passed the Reality Checkpoint. Esi seemed to get more tense as they approached the centre. He said goodbye

to her in glances: her eyes, seeming to take in everything and everyone; her hands, fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves;

her bag, almost sliding off her shoulder. Pin badges dotted the strap. Most of them said The Swerves .

“What are they, a band?” he asked.

She smirked. “Yeah. You won’t have heard of them.”

It stung: a strange, cooler-than-thou thing to say. “All right.”

She realised how it had come across. “Oh. No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, it’s literally impossible for you to have

heard of them, because they don’t exist.”

He gave her a look. “You’re a fan of a band that doesn’t exist.”

She winced. “Yeah?”

“You’re really odd.”

“I know. Sorry, I—”

“It’s a compliment,” he said, with a frustrated laugh.

She stopped. “Look. Joe.” The way she said his name was a puzzle he could have worked on for years: weary, exasperated, like

an in-joke too complex to explain. “You seem nice. Like, surprisingly nice. Honestly, I thought you’d be an entire...”

She closed her eyes, put a finger to her lips. “This has been fun. I’m sure I’ll laugh about it one day, before I forget any

of this ever happened, because it won’t have. But there’s something you should know about me.” She leaned in, her voice dropping

to a whisper. “I’m a disaster. Like, a full-on bomb crater of a person. So if we never see each other again, which we won’t,

just know—you’re not missing anything.”

He shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“You have no idea. You just met me. And now, we’re going to un-meet.” She pointed at the ground, marking the moment. “This

is where I walk away.”

He spread his hands, helpless. “Okay.”

She turned towards WH Smith. Off to buy a roll of dead trees for the counting machine. He watched her go, feeling strangely

bereft. Then someone walked into her. She stumbled, and her bag slipped to the ground. “ Shit ,” she yelled in disproportionate panic, as something fell out. It was a small hardback book. She lunged to pick it up.

“Let me,” he said.

“ No ,” she protested, but it was too late. He had already seen his name on the cover.

He picked it up, holding it out of her reach. He read the title. Meant to Be: Poems for Diana . By Joseph Greene. Above his name was a picture of a dark-haired man and woman embracing. Aside from the fact that the man

was in his thirties, it was recognisably him.

His mind thundered with wild noise. “Explain?” he said weakly.

The expression on her face mesmerised him. It was one he had never seen before on anyone’s, and on hers, it was extraordinary.

“It’s a joke,” she said desperately. “A stupid prank. Your friends put me up to it. Let me...” She tried to grab the book.

He stepped away, slow as a fly in honey. “If it’s a joke, why aren’t you laughing?”

Her face contorted, a terrified, pleading parody of a smile. “It has to be a joke, right? That’s the only way it makes sense.”

“No.” He ran back over their conversation: the band that didn’t exist; the way she’d responded when he’d asked if she was

from London. I will be, if you wait around long enough. Barely believing himself, he said it. “You’re from the future.”

She should have laughed. She should have called him an idiot and sauntered away. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the book in

his hands with a look of utter despair. “There’s this company. Retroflex. They run tourist trips back in time, to see famous

people when they were young.”

His brain was in freefall. “I’m going to be famous. For my poetry.”

“Yeah. For some reason, you are.” She was looking in panic over his shoulder. “And in five minutes, the tour guide’s going

to be off her lunch break and bringing more people here to stare at you, which means...” She reached out. “You need to

give me that back. Now. ”

She grabbed the book. He pulled. She clung, her fingers tightening.

A bike bell rang, shrill and close. They jumped apart to let it through. The book was in Joe’s hand.

Their eyes met across the narrow street.

He ran.