He still wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be. The young woman was wearing the expression of someone who had just won a million dollars as she gawked at him. With a sigh he put his cup down.
“Is there something I can do for you, Miss?”
“Oh. My. God. You’re William Pratt!”
He gave a very dry chuckle. “Indeed,” he said. “Where should I sign?”
He knew that he was being slightly impolite but the girl didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she barely seemed to have heard what he said, she just kept staring while mumbling ‘oh my god’. William sighed inwardly and wished he had listened to his instincts, the ones that screamed ‘TERRIBLE IDEA!’, when he decided to slip in at the café for a coffee. Things like this were very rarely a good idea; at least in daytime there always seemed to be someone who recognised him.
“Can I sit down?” the girl asked abruptly.
“I’m afraid…” he began, just as another woman came over to them with a tray in her hands. He blinked and stared. A petite woman with blonde hair and hazel eyes that turned to him and quickly scanned him up and down.
“Is this a friend of yours, Dawn?” she asked, and in her voice lay a clear warning.
“Oh please, Buffy! Even you must recognise him!” the brunette exclaimed, “It’s William Pratt!”
Buffy. He felt a tugging at the corners of his mouth as he wondered who her mother was. It did suit her in a strange way though.
“Oh right,” Buffy said, “You’re that poet all the critics praises.”
“Yes,” he answered with a small shrug. It was true, after all.
“Can we sit here? Please, please, please,” the brunette asked, looking at him with large puppy-eyes.
“Dawn, you can’t –“
“It’s all right,” William heard himself say from somewhere far away. This was apparently one of those days when he would not listen to his brain. Maybe that was because he was too busy staring at a tiny blonde woman.
The girl whose name apparently was ‘Dawn’ practically squealed before taking the chair next to his. Her friend, or maybe sister, on the other hand, looked very hesitant as she placed the tray on the table.
“Sure you don’t mind?” she asked, receiving a death-glare from the brunette, “I would totally understand if –“
“I wouldn’t have invited you if I did, miss.” He broke her off, offering a gentle smile that she returned as she sat down across from him. Her smile made the world a brighter place. William hastily lifted his cup and took a sip. It was a bad sign when he went with clichés.
“I’m Dawn,” the girl beamed at him, “I’ve read all your books.”
He couldn’t help but grin at that. “All two?”
She giggled. “Well, yeah,” she said, “And this is my sister, Buffy. She hasn’t read your books.”
William had realized a long time ago that there must be millions of people in the world who hadn’t read his books. To finally see someone with his own two eyes felt somewhat like a relief though.
“So you meet a lot of fans, huh,” Dawn said.
He startled and turned to her.
“You looked kind of happy that Buffy not had read them,” the girl continued with a shrug, although she seemed a little hurt.
“It’s not that…” William started, then drew in a deep breath, “If I didn’t want anyone to read my poetry I wouldn’t have published it, would I?”
You never expected it to get this response, a voice in his head reminded him. William sighed inwardly, but Dawn was smiling again and Buffy… Buffy was watching him intently, only to immediately look away when he caught her. He felt a smirk attempt to stretch his lips and quickly raised his cup again. The smirk melted away as he tasted the bitter coffee. Most likely she had just been trying to figure out where she’d seen him before or something.
“Which poem would you say is the best one you’ve written?” Dawn asked and in the process forcing William to push all thoughts away and focus on her. He had got that question before, of course, but still he had to think for a moment.
“Today I think it is… New Moon Rises,” he said at last and jumped a little as the girl beside him squealed anew. The sound could cut through glass.
“It’s true!” she said, “You do have a new favourite every day! I suspected it because you never have the same answer in those interviews but you’ve never really said that…”
“My deepest secret comes out,” he said with a wry smile and across from him Buffy gave a small laugh.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Why do you have a new favourite poem every day?” she clarified.
William shifted in his chair as he contemplated how to answer that question. In the end he settled for a half truth.
“I am in different moods from day to day, I do different things, and I find it quite natural that I shouldn’t always have the same favourite.”
Buffy nodded and took a bite of her sandwich, Dawn, he noticed, hadn’t touched her own. He looked down in his own cup, it would soon be empty and he decided he needed to drink slower.
“Well, I have the same favourite every day,” Dawn said, “You.”
“Really?” He looked at her with genuine surprise.
“Yes. Most of my friends don’t agree with me but I think you can almost taste what the feeling in that one, it’s so sad.”
He remembered writing that poem four years ago, in another life. Now he found himself looking away from the both women and be met by a wall. Out of the corner of an eye he saw Buffy exchange a look with Dawn.
“So, um, Mr Pratt,” Buffy said and he would swear her tone was slightly teasing, “what do you do when you’re not writing?”
“Why, Miss Buffy,” he said in the same tone, smiling now, “I write of course.”
She giggled and Dawn joined in. “That all you do?” Buffy asked.
William shrugged and put on a carefully neutral mask. “Sometimes I talk about what I’ve written or write autographs,” he said, “Occasionally though, I go out to get the recklessly drunk.”
New giggles and he felt quite proud of himself as he emptied his cup. “Now, however,” he continued, “It’s time for me to head home.”
He stood and put on his jacket, grabbing the shoulder bag he’d come into a habit of having with him after a ‘fan’ had tried to snatch his notepad out of his hand. Sure, they could still try to steal the bag, but somehow it still felt safer to have his notes in it; at least people couldn’t know for sure what was in it. Dawn looked at him with those puppy-eyes again and he took pity on her. If she forgot to ask she’d never forgive herself.
“Would you like me to sign something for you?” he asked.
Dawn beamed and nodded. As she bent down to roam through her bag Buffy leaned closer to him and placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you so much for letting us…” she began in a quiet voice, before biting her lip, “Our mom died not long ago and Dawn hasn’t… Well, thank you.”
Her eyes met his and he didn’t quite know what to say, didn’t know how to say he understood. The loss of his own mother still made his heart ache.
“It was my pleasure,” he settled for saying.
Just then Dawn straightened herself and handed him his first book over the table. Her face told him she had heard every word, but she was still smiling. He wondered how many people in the US always carried his books with them. Quickly, as he had a hundred times before, he scribbled down ‘For Dawn’ and his signature underneath. When he gave it back she stroked the words, or maybe the page, with her index finger.
“It was nice to…” He was cut off as Dawn leaped out of her chair and hurried around the table to hug him. She wrapped her long, thin arms around his waist and for a second he was frozen, before he awkwardly patted her on the back. When she pulled back she said, “Now I can tell everybody that I’ve hugged William Pratt.”
Normally such a comment would have left him in a foul mood, today he found himself still quietly chuckling to himself on his way home.
The following week he tried to spend a lot of time writing. In reality, he spent a lot of time thinking and wishing he’d had the guts to ask that woman, Buffy, for her phone number. He met up with Tara one day, who – as always – could read William’s mind in a second and didn’t give up until he had spilled the whole story. “Spike would’ve run after her in a heartbeat, you know,” she’d pointed out but he hadn’t been so sure. “Isn’t it strange,” he had said later that evening, he’d been lying with his head in her lap while they watched ‘Forrest Gump’ for the millionth time, “You meet someone and they just… stick to your mind, you can’t let them go.” Her hand had come up to stroke his hair. “Maybe she’s the one,” she’d said simply.
Maybe she’s the one. The line still echoed in his head two days after he had seen Tara and he was wandering around in his flat. His laptop was humming quietly on the coffee table, he had managed to start on one poem this morning and had a really good feeling about it. Before he wrote anything more though, he wanted to ponder the words; taste them. Maybe he would go for a walk, visit the library. He put on his jacket and wrote the few words he had written on his laptop in his notepad, before stuffing it into his shoulder bag together with some pencils and two pieces of paper. A minute later he was scurrying down the stairs and into the fresh air. It was a lovely winter day, cold but not windy and the sky was blue. William walked the half an hour long journey to the library and was just in time for its opening.
He took a short cut between the bookshelves and met up with one of the librarians, Michael Andersen.
“Morning, Mr Pratt,” the man said with a nod of his head and a grin.
“Good morning, Mr Andersen,” William answered, “Anything new to recommend me?”
“You mean something you haven’t read?” the man said, raising his eyebrows and William chuckled. “Not today I’m afraid, you asked this Monday, you know.”
“There’s no harm in asking again.” William shrugged, still grinning as he started to walk away.
“There’s harm in asking too often!” Andersen called after him and was rewarded with a ‘shh’ from someone on the other side of the bookshelf.
William found his perfection in his usual corner and threw his bag on top of the table and got his things out. He spread out the pieces of paper and lay his notepad and a pencil beside them, before he sank down in the chair with a small, pleased sigh. For a long while he simply sat there. Close to an hour had passed by when he lifted the pencil and started to write, but by then he knew exactly which words to chose.
William stumbled into his flat in the late afternoon and just dropped his bag on the floor before he slumped onto the sofa. An absolute delicate feeling filled him, as it always did on these days and he smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and sleep took him. It felt like he had only been asleep for a moment when the phone rang. Groaning, he rolled over and promptly fell to the floor. Grumbling to himself he got to his feet as the shrill ring tone sounded through the room again. At least this kind of wake up-call revived him quickly. He crossed the room to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” he said, voice a little hoarse.
“Hi, is William there? William Pratt?” a feminine voice said and his heart started to hammer.
“It’s me.”
“Oh. Um. Hi. This is Buffy, Buffy Summers, remember we met a week ago at –“
“I remember.”
Christ. She was calling him? What could she want? To thank him for signing her sister’s book? No… that was ridiculous. Maybe –
“I’m sorry to… and I’m sure you…” Buffy said and he heard her take a deep breath, “Right. I looked you up in the phone book, not that you were listed or anything, so I had to call a directo… Anyway, I wanted to ask if we maybe could go out for dinner. Or coffee again, perhaps. Or something else.”
“I… okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
There was a short pause.
“So dinner or something else?” she asked.
Vivid images of ‘something else’ flashed through his mind.
“Dinner sounds fine,” he heard himself saying.
“Great. Is this Friday too soon?”
Two minutes later he hung up. In his hand he held a piece of paper. Buffy Summers’ address and phone number were written on it.
Two days later he stood staring at his reflection in the mirror. He had always cared about his looks, or, well, he had started to care second year in high school. However, that didn’t mean he needed a thousand different outfits; he’d figured out some years ago that all he needed was one look with variations. Now, he wasn’t so sure and was irritated with himself for not being sure. He wore his Doc Martins, black jeans and a blue shirt with his usual jacket, and he hadn’t attempted to tame his light brown hair. Tilting his head he looked himself up and down once more, then growled and abruptly turned away from the mirror. He stalked into the hall, snatched up his car keys and opened the front door. Absurd is what it is, he thought as he went down the stairs. So what if it had been a year since his last date, that wasn’t a reason for him to be skittish. Things would work out absolutely fine.
07:09 PM
Drawing in a deep breath, William patted the steering wheel soothingly and turned the keys again.
“C’mon, baby,” he begged, “Please.”
The engine gave a half-hearted growl and died again. Swearing under his breath William banged his head against the steering wheel a couple of times, before he finally sighed and just let his forehead rest against it.
“Fuck. You had to let me down today of all days, didn’t you.” He lifted his head two inches and glanced to the left. The black motorcycle seemed to stare back at him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He couldn’t not show up at Buffy’s. It was as simple as that. Another groan and he got out of the car. He shuffled up to his flat again to switch keys, checked the time and ran down to the garage. The motorcycle roared to life without a single protest.
07:32 PM
“Where is Dawn tonight? I was a bit surprised when she didn’t come rushing out,” William said.
“She’s at a friend’s place, they’re having a sleepover.” Buffy smiled wryly. “God, she would’ve just died when she saw you on that motorcycle.”
“Right.” He felt his cheeks heat just a little and looked down at his food.
“Anyhow, I really prefer not to leave her alone.”
That had him looking up again and he frowned a little. “What about your dad?”
“Not in the picture,” she said bitterly, “He and Mom were divorced and I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. Now, please, let’s talk about something else. Let’s see…” She tapped her fingers against the table. “So… what’s your favourite food in the whole world?”
08:04 PM
She made him think of the sun. It was something about the way she talked and moved – he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt a little bit like a lovesick teenager, not that it had been that many years since he’d been one, but still… When he talked she seemed to hang on to every word, as if he spoke of the most interesting things she had ever heard.
08:16 PM
“I haven’t read much poetry but I had to check out yours, of course.”
“Of course.” He winked at her. “What do you think of it?”
Delicate lines marred her forehead and some seconds went by while she, seemingly, was absorbed in thoughts.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she admitted finally, talking to her empty plate, “It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, just… I’m not sure I got your meaning when I read it. I’m not very deep.” She shot him a glance.
“Buffy,” he began, and before he could stop himself he’d reached across the table and taken her hand. She started and met his gaze and he winced inwardly, maybe he shouldn’t have… he shook his head. It was too late.
“Buffy…” he said again, “There are quite a few critics who have attempted to analyze my poems, and I’m sure my readers have construed it their own way. I think though, when it comes to poetry, every person looks at a poem differently… I’m sure your picture is just as pretty as anyone else’s.”
10:33 PM
“Do you want to come in?”
He blinked.
“Alright.”
She smiled.
10:45 PM
He caught her staring at him and a delicious blush crept up her cheeks. He suspected she was a little tipsy, but so was he. Who cared? He took another sip from his glass. And almost spit it out when she spoke again.
“I don’t have sex on the first date.”
Had he given her that impression? Been too forward? Should he not have accepted her invitation to come inside? Abruptly she stood, crossed the short distance between them and straddled his lap.
“I think I may do an exception with you,” she said, her eyes a little glazed as she tilted her head to the side and studied him. “I think you’re the kind who’s still there in the morning.”
She kissed him.
11:02 PM
“Hurry up,” she murmured, locking her legs around his waist as she pulled him down for another kiss. She tasted of wine and chocolate. He couldn’t get enough. One of his hands travelled up her side.
“William,” she moaned into his mouth and he had to pull back so he could look at her. Her face flushed, mouth a little swollen and eyes half-closed. God.
11:07 PM
He pushed two fingers inside her. Warm, wet and he just wanted in. Hungrily he pressed his lips against hers anew and her hand glided down his side, it tickled a little. Her breath was hot against the side of his face.
Abruptly she pushed against his chest and he pulled back a little.
“What…?”
“You got anything?” she whispered.
“Anything…?”
Oh. Right.
He leaned over the bed and fished in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, heart thundering. What if… And breathed a sigh of relief.
11.54 PM
She lay curled into his side. He did not know if she was still awake or not. Slowly, he stroked her back. She didn’t move. Carefully he turned over onto his side to look at her face.
After a moment he realized he was grinning like an idiot.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” He smiled at her and bent down to kiss her. The kiss landed on the side of her mouth. Her smile widened, before a sudden blush coloured her cheeks.
“Um… I think I may have been a bit drunk last night,” she said.
He chuckled. “Yeah me too.” Then he pulled back a little. “You don’t… I mean you don’t think… you wanted to…”
“Yes. I am definitely of the ‘want to’,” she said. “But I still don’t have sex on the first date. Not really.”
He arched an eyebrow. “How about on the second?”
The End