Emma

He woke with the usual phone-call from his mate, the phone lighting up and buzzing on the side-board table; rolled over and answered it, agreed to meet at the cafe and hung up. He hauled himself out of bed and threw himself into the shower and got dressed, made his way out of the bed-sit where he lived, walked through the rest of the building to get to the outside that was grey and bracing. He checked his phone: seven fifteen am and right on time.

The wind blew up and he pulled his coat closer and crossed the lights and came to it: ‘Jekyll's’, the same old cafe where they would meet, every other day, and every day off, and every day into the foreseeable future. He pushed  on the heavy door and noted one of his favourite waitresses, working: black hair cut into a bob, porcelain skin. Patrons, lounging in front of tables, sitting, sipping coffees. His mate, John, sitting in his usual position, holding a paper to his face, glasses resting on his nose, the same skinny jeans and striped jumper. He walked over to him and sat down, and he put his paper down, his craggy face breaking into a smile. They sat and then their usual waitress was there, standing over him, waiting for their order. He looked up at her smiling face and saw that she was attractive, herself, and wondered about her and they ordered, then looked back at each other, but there was nothing more to say, and they finished their coffees, and that was the morning routine, done. They agreed to catch up soon and he walked the rest of the way back up the hill and back to his apartment, grateful to have the day off, and sat in it, and didn’t do much more than stare at the walls, his mind doing strange things, but mostly just learning how to rest.

That night, he dreamed of some lover that he had been with in youth, some beauty queen with long dark hair, but just as she had showed up, so she had disappeared, with hardly a trace, leaving a longing that lasted into his waking hours.

For the rest of the week, he took calls to work, dragging himself out of bed and getting into the car, until Friday came around, when he could let his hair down and cut loose with his mates, check out a band or two. He showered and got dressed and caught a glance at himself in the mirror, saw a guy with a pasty complexion and long hair, but it was all lost on him and meant nothing.

It was dark by the time that he made it out, dark and cold and he pulled his coat close, made it up the street and onto the tram line, where he stood and waited with a few other ramblers: a blonde woman with a coat much like his own, a couple holding each other close. And then, the tram came, rattling up the tracks, and they got on, and he stood amidst the crowd, the smell of women’s perfume and aftershave, raucous laughter going around. It came to the city, and he got off and checked the time, saw that he was running late, then walked a quicker pace, up the hill, and made it to the bar.

The place was packed. He waited in line and, after a while, made it up to the bar and caught the barman’s eye, then ordered a glass of beer, took it and stepped amongst the crowd, careful not to spill it, then came to the back section: the smoker’s area, where a lot of the talking went on, then felt a hand grab his shoulder, turned, and saw his mate, standing in front of him, sipping on a beer.

‘Hey, mate!’

‘Hey. You are not going to want to miss this.’

‘Miss what?’

‘Tonight, upstairs. It’s one of Melbourne’s premier gyp-see guitar bands…’

‘Gyp-see guitar bands?’

‘That’s right, I’m heading up there now, see you up there.’

With that, his mate turned and strode off, and marched up the stairs, leaving him to finish his beer and admire the talent, on his own, which he did. Jake stood and looked around. Groups of people talking. A woman with long hair and a denim jacket, leaning up against a guy, yelling at him, talking about the abysmal political scene. And then, a group came through the door and took up the small amount of space in front of him, and with them, a woman, who stood, planted to the spot, looking down into a glass of beer, and then back up at him. He stood and looked at her, and then, she looked up at him, looked him in the eye.

‘Are you waiting for an invitation?’

He looked at her, amazed.

‘Uh, my name’s Jake.’

‘Jake, it’s a nice name.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Yours?’

‘It’s Emma.’

‘Emma, nice name.’

‘Thanks.’

He looked at her and saw that she was irresistible, dark hair, flowing down her back, a pretty face, like a doll. He thought about how he was going to play it, knew he had to keep the conversation rolling or she might think him weird, knew that alcohol was the great facilitator.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Alright, I’ll just get to the bar.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Shocked, he finished his beer and put the glass down on the cement wall, turned and opened the door and let her in and pushed his way through the crowd, amazed that it was going so well between them, turned around, and, sure enough, she was following him. 

After a while, he made it the bar, and, as if by magic, they found a couch and were seated next to each other and opposite another couple who were making out, and she was looking at him and laughing at his jokes and a few drinks later, they were kissing, and he was shocked and amazed by the whole thing, and suddenly believed in miracles.

The night slipped into a boozy mess, with various characters tapping him on the shoulder, and suddenly he was friends with everyone, the world taking on a hazy warm hue and they were courtiers and married and time seemed to stand still, and everything was because of her and he remembered how much life could change because of a woman. In what seemed like the next moment, the lights came up and people were leaving the bar and they were looking at each other and she still looked good and he knew it wasn’t the booze talking, and it suddenly seemed as if they had known each other forever and they were standing to leave and she remained by his side and he wondered what he had done to get so lucky all of a sudden.

Last drinks came and they were ordering everyone out of the bar and so they made their way out. It was cold outside, and he pulled his coat closer and saw that she was right by his side, and he marvelled, and they started walking and he took her hand and continued to marvel at the fact of her. They walked past the late-night pizza joint, fluorescent lights radiating out into the night and he bought them each a couple of slices and they ate them, and then, as if by magic, a cab pulled up and parked right beside them and they opened the back door and got in. They ate and she declared that she wanted to go back to her house, and then he realised, with a shudder, that sex was on the cards, and she seemed to notice and finished the pizza and started to kiss him, as though consoling him, and even despite the booze and the haze, he couldn’t believe what was happening.

In what seemed like the next instant, the cab pulled up and he paid and then found himself marching up a set of stairs, inside an apartment block, following the tail of a woman he hardly knew and realised that this was all happening way too fast. She opened the door with a key and then turned and kissed him and took him by the hand, then showed him to the bedroom, and started undressing, and he could feel himself becoming emotional, but she turned the lights out and held him, and he held her, shocked by the warmth and softness of her; the whole thing, the most incredible dream he had ever had.

The next day, he woke and looked around and saw that he was in an apartment different from his, and it all came back like the memories of a good dream, but she was already gone. He got out of the bed and looked around, but the place was empty, and he couldn’t make his mind up on what he should do. Who was she? Maybe he should just stay? But then, what if she came home in a bad mood, and didn’t want him around? There were just too many questions, and he felt somehow rude for leaving without a trace. And then he remembered that he had her phone number and realised that it would be enough. He would send her a text message, or call her, or something. He made his way out, feeling as if he had somehow committed a crime, and then faced the day, and for a second, thought it would overwhelm him, the sun, blinding him and stinging his eyes. He managed to get on a tram and then make his make his way home, happy when he made it through the door and then collapsing into bed.

Days later, he found himself at another bar, and knew that if he left it any longer, she might become angry, but then, he hardly knew her, and yet, she was all he could think about. He sat and drank his beer and constructed something careful: ‘Hi, Emma, how are you? Was wondering if we could meet?’ But nothing came back. Days later, he tried again. And then, he called, but there was no answer. Weeks passed, and still he pined for her, and yet there was no response. For weeks, he returned to the same bar, on a Friday night, hoping to see her again, but there was no trace. Whoever she was, she went down into the annuls of his history, and there was nothing more to say about that.