‘Down these mean streets a man must go who his not himself mean,
Who is neither tarnished nor afraid’
I was so psyched. But I was also really worried. What if she rejected me? I needed to know her. It wasn’t just that she was pretty, even though she was; she had an ethereal beauty about her that had intrigued me. But that wasn’t why I wanted to ask her out. I wanted to know about her, wanted to befriend her. She seemed to hold secrets, like her entire being was controlled by them. I didn’t even know her name.
I breathed in, then out. No need to stress. I got dressed, my casual clothes under my police jacket. But not too casual. It was quite a fancy restaurant after all. But what if she didn’t like red? No. Don’t worry about it. I had enough on my mind without worrying about my shirt colour.
As I ate my breakfast I worried about my hair. Was the gel too much? Or should I leave it in its normal, messy state? I ran my fingers through it, the gel sliming up my fingers. Disgusted, I went over to the sink and ran my head under the water until my hair felt back to normal. Rubbing it with a towel, I grabbed my briefcase and hat, and walked out the door.
At the office, I’m surprised only one person noticed how weird I was acting. When I got there, my partner Greg tilted his head and said, “Are you ok, mate? You don’t seem your usual bright, confident, arrogant self.”
That got my attention, just as he had intended it to. I punched him on the shoulder. “I’m fine. I was up all night chatting up innocent Australian tourists,” I said, obviously not telling him that I had really been up all night worrying about that afternoon when I would try to ask that girl out.
“Oh good. You’re back to normal, you sarcastic weirdo. I know you’re lying you know, because I talked to you last night, remember? When are you going to ask that girl out, anyway?”
I almost punched myself. Although I liked Greg- he was the closest thing to a best friend I’d had for years- I hadn’t meant to tell anyone about her, and made a mental note to never tell anyone else anything about my social life.
“Today, hopefully. I just hope she doesn’t reject me.”
“She won’t, mate. I would tell you that you are quite an attractive young man, but that would inflate your already oversized ego, so I won’t. But she wouldn’t reject you, because you obviously like her,” he then started batting his eyelashes. “And no one could resist your charms, Jamie.” He giggled girlishly.
“Shut up, you weirdo. I’ve got to work.”
After three hours, I was a nervous wreck. I had bitten most of my fingernails off, and I don’t think any of the reports I was meant to be filing had actually moved off my desk. Now was the time.
I stood up and took my jacket off, hanging it on the back of my chair. I saw myself in the mirror on the wall- I looked like a ghost, if ghosts had brown hair. I tried to smile, then as soon as I had I wished I hadn’t. Not only did it make me look like a sick dog, it made me feel like I was about to throw up.
Greg looked up from his desk. “You look fine, mate. Go get her!”
I gulped. As I walked out of the office and down a few blocks to the restaurant, it was as if I was walking to my own execution. As I sat down, I could almost feel the pointy ends of the weapons digging into my head, ready to fire. This was it.
A ginger-haired woman came up to my table. “Hi, Welcome to Gina’s. I’m… well, I’m Gina,” she said, giggling. “One of the waitresses will be out in a minute. I hope you have a nice lunch!” She rushed away, looking excited.
I sat there nervously, drumming my fingertips on the table top and staring absentmindedly out the window. What if a different waitress came to my table? What if she was on a break? What if I got so nervous I couldn’t say anything?
“Are you ready to order, sir?” said a quiet voice behind me.
I jumped and turned around. It was her. Oh God, she was beautiful. Her golden brown hair was pulled back into loose bun, a single curled strand falling down and framing her delicate face. She was wearing the same outfit, but with a different style of t-shirt that only showed off her thin, hourglass frame. There was a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder that I hadn’t noticed before, which seemed to have an intricate design which made it seem like it was symbolic. But it was her eyes I wanted to see, those deep emotional, secretive eyes.
“Hello again,” I said. “I was hoping to see you again.”
I’m not sure what happened after that. It’s all blurred into one embarrassing mess. All I’m aware of is finding out her name. Hannah. Hannah George. She didn’t seem too keen to talk to me, which is probably why it’s hard to remember anything. I wasn’t even aware of her leaving, then coming back with the lunch I was never going to eat.
The next thing I knew, I was asking her out, and as soon as I said it, I felt my heart sink. She was going to reject me. I could see it in the way she was holding herself, in the way her eyes were darting towards anything but me.
“Sure. When will you pick me up?” she said. I think she was even more shocked than I was. I pulled myself together as best I could.
“Eight. See you then.” I said, watching her retreating figure as she went towards the kitchen.
She said yes!
Sitting at the same bar in muggle London, on the same bar stool, next to the same people, and ordering the same drink as I have for the past week. The others all seem to wear the same sad, sorry expression that has been haunting my own features since last Sunday. We’re the ones who have been living on alcohol, to survive, to drive away the pain. The ones who’ve got no place to turn while the holidays have turned against us.
I lift my glass and drain the last of the drink into my dry mouth. I put it down heavily and heave myself off the stool and up the stairs to my room. I close and lock the door, then walk to the single, dirty window and shut the curtain. I turn and see something sitting on my bed. It’s my owl.
Immediately, I walk to the bed and stroke her. I’m not alone after all. After a few minutes, I notice that there’s a letter tied to her leg. Cautiously, I untie it and break the seal.
Dear Harry,
This is a letter…
My breath stops in my throat. It’s in her writing. I want to read it. So badly. But I know I can’t, because that would only get me back to where I started. And I’m in no mood to read her half-hearted apologies, swearing that it wasn’t her fault; that she didn’t mean to do it. Taking it in my hands, I rip it up and throw it into the bin that sits next to my bed.
I think I’m moving on.
See you next chapter
nothing belongs to me, btw
chlo xoxo