Meeting Emily
Walking out in the nippy air right after dawn is becoming a habit, either because he hasn't come back home yet or because he doesn't sleep much any more and walking in the park seems a better option that lying down and thinking and craving.
He's been walking for hours, today, the morning turning towards lunch time, people hurrying around on their business. It's comforting, somehow, to know that life goes on even when you feel you are stuck at crossroads and whatever direction seems to be the wrong one.
And because he's not looking, he bumps into someone, noise of shopping bags falling down, hands instinctively reaching out to hold.
A pretty, pretty woman, in exquisite expensive clothes. Blonde, petite. A sweet smile. A sad smile.
"I'm sorry," Dean says, letting go of her, smiling back. "I'm so clumsy these days." And he is, because of the bruises he keeps collecting around. He's lucky they're not showing on his face anymore. He crouches down and start picking up the woman's shopping. More expensive clothing, brand names that everyone knows and only a few can afford.
She was carrying one of those paper mugs. The coffee spilt on the ground, a bit on Dean's shoes.
"Buy you another one to apologise?" He doesn't know why he's offering really. Or better, he knows, because he is lonely and hasn't been around a woman for quite a while now. And they are lovely, in their own soft, gentle way. At least this one is.
And she says "I shouldn't," but then changes her mind, again with that sad light in her eyes, and maybe something more deeper down, so they go to a place nearby, sit down at one of those high tables with stools that go up to your waist, all chrome and leather in funky colours and real greens in strategically placed pots.
"I'm Dean,"he says when they have ordered coffee, and she takes his hand and say "Emily," and her hand is soft and warm and small in his.
And Dean's eyes automatically go to check if she's wearing a ring, and she is.
Emily, married, rich, pretty, sad.
And the coffee, creamy, expensive south american coffee in elaborate mugs, it's cold and tasteless.
They chat quietly over the coffee, of little things that don't matter. They are strangers, after all, but all the same, they both take their time with it. Little details, like Dean's acting and his travelling before that, and now taking a break from it all, and Emily's love for Paris and art and living a good life...they both skirt around topics they would not be comfortable with and still, the coffee becomes lunch.
And when lunch is finished, Dean walks her to her car. They don't say much, but it's comfortable. Dean feels the impulse to ask for a number, although he's pretty sure she's not going to give it to him. What for? And it's not as if he's going to call her, is it? Or maybe he will.
"Do you have a card?" she says instead. A little defiance, maybe. Something unsaid between them. Dean gives her his card, and stands still looking at her while she drives away.