Actually Romantic Story #1 - The Sketchers (Slightly Belated Valentine's Day Story)

The love heart felt like a message, but not a personal message from her favourite barista—he already had a Norwegian girlfriend called Inger and had also given a love heart to the sniffly old man sitting by the fireplace. The love heart was special for some other reason.

She wanted to figure out what that reason was, but she was distracted. Despite the soothing rain sounds outside and the cosy café ambiance, the man in Booth 2 was making it hard for her to relax. He was leaning back against a glass pane in the corner of the booth, one leg stretched out on the seating, looking very comfortable as he scribbled in a sketchbook. Scribbling, looking up, looking down, scribbling, looking up.

Looking up at Zoe.

He was drawing her, and knowing that made it impossible for her to enjoy her love-heart latte or act natural. The way it was coming down outside, there was no comfortable escape. She could either stay in the cafe and be drawn against her will, or she could go outside and get drenched against her will.

After a few more minutes of looking everywhere but at the man in Booth 2, Zoe finally let her eyes wander to him. He dropped his own eyes immediately, his pencil working particularly hard in the moments that followed. He didn’t look up again as he sipped his drink, and Zoe appreciated that he was at least trying to be subtle.

She took a moment to observe him as he worked. He had an interesting, serious face and dark clothes. His scruffy hair was slightly wet, suggesting he’d also been caught in the rain.

“Can I get you another one, sweetie?”

The waitress’s voice almost disappeared into the pitter-patter outside. Zoe thought it was strange to be called sweetie as an adult, but it happened a lot.

Having another one was a definite possibility, especially while her favourite barista was working. She happened to have a sketchbook and some pencils in her bag too—perhaps she could settle in for the afternoon. Perhaps she and the man sitting in Booth 2 could sketch each other.

“What choice do I have? I’m trapped!”

“I swear we didn’t put the clouds up to it,” said the waitress with a smile.

Zoe removed her damp hat and placed it on the table, keen to signal to herself as much as the man in Booth 2 that she wasn’t going anywhere. Some of the tension in her body softened as she retrieved the sketchbook from her soggy bag. The thought of sketching the man who was sketching her filled her with so much amusement, she suddenly didn’t care half as much about the discomfort of being scrutinised. She’d always found humour to have a neutralising effect on anxiety and uncertainty. She could handle just about anything if it was funny.

She opened the sketchbook to a fresh page and cracked open her pencil case. The darker, softer pencils seemed most appropriate for this particular subject matter. His thick, almost brooding energy demanded a 6B at the very least.

As soon as her fingers found the right pencil, she began to view him through artist eyes–the contours of his face, the spacing of his features, the wrinkles and so-called imperfections, the way the corners of his lips curved down a little, the uneven shadows under his eyes.

Suddenly he struck her as quite beautiful.

She could often tell from the first few strokes if a drawing was going to flow out of her, or if it was going to be a battle all the way. The difference between success or failure wasn’t so much skill as it was alignment. There was a peaceful effortlessness to strokes one, two, three, four, and five. This was going to be a good one.

The first time she looked up from her sketchbook and met his eye, it was like getting zapped with an energetic cattle prod. She almost burst into laughter. Her heart raced as he looked down again. Scribble, scribble, scribble.

He must have been deeply focused, because it took longer than Zoe expected for him to catch on to the fact that they were drawing each other. It was only by the fourth or fifth time she caught his eye that he gave a quiet but knowing chuckle. She couldn’t help laughing too. They stared at each other for a few moments. A question seemed to hang in the air between them.

Is this really what we’re doing?

He continued drawing first.

Zoe barely noticed her second coffee arriving. She had captured his head and shoulders, and the way the light from the window he was leaning back on glowed in his drying hair. Each time they looked up at the same time, the urge to smile or laugh faded a little. Amusement was replaced by a mutual and intense focus that was facilitated by the gentle rapping of the rain. For a while towards the end—deep in flow and getting quite used to scrutinising and being scrutinised—Zoe wondered why she had ever felt uncomfortable in the first place. That need for things to be a certain way was all just an illusion.

She finished her drawing before she even started her second latte. Eyes glued to the page, she sat back with an accomplished smile and sipped. Normally a lukewarm coffee would make her gag, but on this occasion she barely noticed. It was only as she went for a second sip that she even thought to look at her favourite barista’s artwork.

The image had been a little distorted by her first sip, but she could make out the shape of a key in the foam. She glanced at the barista, wondering how he decided on what images to create.

She finished the coffee as the man in Booth 2 stopped drawing. He closed his sketchbook and sipped his own drink, his eyes flitting briefly to hers. They exchanged nervous looks, as if they were about to do a drug deal.

The funny part was over, and tension returned to Zoe’s body—the illusion of things needing to be a certain way becoming increasingly convincing again. Two people had just sketched each other and exchanged several smiles—surely that couldn’t be the end of it. He clearly didn’t know what to do either, but when their eyes met again, he raised his eyebrows in a way that seemed like an invitation to engage.

Zoe had always found herself much more likely to do something if she visualised it first. Or perhaps even more accurately: she found things much more likely to happen if she visualised them first.

She imagined grabbing her sketchbook, standing up, and walking calmly over to the man. She imagined placing the sketchbook down on the tabletop and showing him what he had inspired her create.

Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, she stood up for real. He watched her with open curiosity as she made her way towards his booth. Like a schoolboy correcting himself as the teacher walks into the classroom, he sat up straight and put both feet on the ground when she slid into the seat opposite him. She placed her sketchbook on the table—upside down from her perspective—and nudged it towards him.

The naturally downturned corners of his lips curved up slightly. His eyebrows arched again. “Is my hanging needle really that deep?”

Zoe blinked. “What the heck is a hanging needle?”

He tapped the single crease between his eyebrows—on his face rather than on the page. It was a subtle but distinctive feature that Zoe had noticed early on.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked. “I think it’s striking—much more compelling than your typical eleven lines.”

“Compelling?” He grunted in obvious amusement. “I suppose I like the honesty of it—my life etched into my face for everyone to see. Gotta have something to show for it all.”

“I think it’s cool.”

The man gestured towards her drawing. “And I think you’re talented.”

“Thanks!” Zoe rested her elbows on the table and leaned towards him, as if preparing to share a secret. “Come on then—show me yours.”

He paused for a moment—either out of genuine reluctance or to create suspense—and then opened his sketchbook. He smirked at Zoe’s confused face when he held up a magnificent drawing of a technicoloured giraffe.

“Get lost!” Zoe laughed louder than she meant to, prompting a woman nearby to glance at them. “You were not drawing a giraffe that whole time.”

He closed the sketchbook with a quietly mischievous look. “Just kidding.” He opened it again at a different page and pushed it across the table towards her. “Is this more what you were expecting?”

Zoe’s amusement was quickly replaced with awe. He had captured her likeness with almost annoying accuracy, but that wasn’t what impressed her most. All around her image, he had smudged ethereal streaks of colour—pink, green, purple, blue. She didn’t know what it meant, but she couldn’t help resonating with this depiction of herself.

“You’re very creative with colours,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s just what I see.”

“Really?”

“But don’t go thinking you’re special, at least not based on that—his colours are very similar.”

Zoe smiled as her attention was directed to the sniffly old man who had also received a heart-art latte.

“You know,” she focused again on her new companion, “the last man who drew me put me up at least two cup sizes. I was half expecting the same thing again, but if anything it’s too true to life.”

For a brief moment, he looked a little taken back. “Well,” his face seemed to warm up, “I can very confidently say that I didn’t feel the need to make modifications. I really don’t think any modifications could improve upon what I’m looking at.”

Zoe wished she had worn makeup that morning, if only to hide how red her cheeks must have turned.

“Here.” He ripped the page out of his sketchbook before Zoe could protest. “You can keep it.”

She was genuinely happy to be given his drawing—more because it would serve as a reminder of the occasion than anything else. She said he could keep hers too, and he thanked her as she took care to pull it out of her sketchbook without ripping the page. They exchanged smiles and drawings—an unexpected but exhilarating trade. Another question seemed to hang in the air between them.

What now?

She found it much more intense to look into his eyes without a pencil in her hand, and a familiar discomfort rose within her—tight chest, fluttering stomach, overall constricting sensation. All of a sudden, she felt the need to escape. She needed to get away from him as soon as possible.

That’s when she noticed a distinct lack of pitter-patter.

“Well, it’s stopped raining cats and dogs.”

“So it has.”

Zoe played a few scenarios out in her head in the moments that followed. She imagined getting up, thanking him for the drawing, and leaving. She imagined suggesting they have a coffee together. She imagined asking if he wanted to go for a walk by the river now that the sun was out.

The first scenario felt the safest. She was about to speak when he did.

“Can I get you another coffee?”

Her chest tightened further. She felt like saying, “I almost just asked you the same thing.” But instead she slipped his drawing into her sketchbook and stood up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d better get going in case it starts up again.”

“It looks pretty sunny now.”

“Thanks for the drawing! It was lovely to meet you.”

There was a hint of defeat in his face when Zoe slung her bag over her shoulder. Something inside her screamed as she began to walk away. She was desperate to escape, but at the same time it felt like she was making a mistake. Each step towards the door compounded the sinking feeling within. She was about to say goodbye to her favourite barista when a voice called behind her.

“Wait.”

She turned at once, almost dizzy with relief. “Yes?”

“I forgot to sign it.”

Zoe fought to keep the disappointment off her face. She walked back to the booth, retrieved his drawing from her sketchbook, and placed it back down on the table. He scrawled away for longer than expected, before handing it back to her. She detected a gentle glimmer of possibility in his eyes, but he said nothing.

“Interesting signature.” Zoe managed to disguise the extent of her delight at seeing his contact details on the page, but the heat in her cheeks would be harder to hide. “Is this your strategy with all the girls?”

“Maybe it should be, but it actually isn’t.” He picked up his sketchbook and flicked through it. “See? No other torn out pages, and it’s mostly giraffes.”

“Why giraffes?”

“I just like them.”

“Can’t argue with that—they’re gentle creatures of a higher perspective.”

Tristan smiled big enough to create creases in his face Zoe hadn’t seen before. It made her want to draw him again.

“They also have really big hearts,” he said.

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Possibly both, but I meant literally.” He turned to a page of his sketchbook featuring a giraffe and tapped the chest area. “Giraffe hearts weigh about as much as two male cats.”

“Really?” Zoe couldn’t help laughing, and the lady nearby looked over again. The thought of two male cats living inside a giraffe was amusing enough to sooth some of her fear. She leaned on the table and picked up the pencil Tristan had signed with. “I guess I’d better sign yours too.”

“Please do.”

Zoe felt his eyes on the side of her face as she wrote.

Tristan gave another proper smile when she slid it over to him, and suddenly his hanging needle didn’t look so deep.

He chuckled. “Flowy–”

“I made that email when I was twelve.”

She snatched up her sketchbook once more and hugged it against her chest. She could feel her heart thumping through the cover. It was thumping so hard, it might as well have been the size of two male cats.

“I really shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

His pleased expression faded slightly. “Why not?”

“Because now I have to deal with the ambiguity of not knowing who’s going to message first—or if one of us will even message first.”

“Oh.” His eyes took on a reassuring softness. “Don’t worry, I’m happy to make that very unambiguous very quickly.”

“Okay.” Zoe smiled. “Thank you, Tristan.”

They said their goodbyes, and this time she left without a voice screaming in her head. She thanked her favourite barista for the heart and the key on her way out the door. She was barely two shops down the street when her phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from an unknown number, but she knew immediately who it was.

Zoe reflexively grabbed the top of her head as she turned back toward the cafe. She giggled when she spotted Tristan standing in the entrance, her hat on his head. She thanked him as she approached.

“Maybe you should keep it. That pink bow kinda suits you.”

“Well, I have always been in touch with my feminine side.”

“I like that,” Zoe said.

“Do you?” Tristan removed her hat and handed it to her. He looked up at the sky, before his eyes floated back down to Zoe with a fresh sort of sparkle. “In this moment full of infinite possibilities, I can’t help wondering…” He trailed off, and once again it was unclear whether he was creating suspense or buying time.

“Is this about giraffes?”

“Since the sun is shining upon us so favourably and we’ve already gotten the who-will-message-first situation over with, would you like to go for a highly unambiguous walk by the river?”

“Highly unambiguous sounds a bit too far in the other direction for a first date.”

“Appropriately unambiguous?”

Zoe placed the hat on her head and scanned her body for signs of disapproval. The urge to escape had subsided considerably. She couldn’t help thinking about how she had imagined asking Tristan for a walk by the river just a few minutes ago. A voice in her head had screamed at her when she didn’t do it, and now here he was asking her for a walk by the river.

The Universe was generous with her sometimes.

She said it was a lovely idea.

He smiled, and she couldn’t help smiling back. They turned together on the wet path, which shimmered gold in the afternoon sun. The constricting sensation Zoe had felt earlier was soon entirely replaced with a calm sense of expansion. As they talked, part of her brain noticed a picture of a giraffe on the signage for a kindergarten. She was too immersed in conversation to point it out.

She had never felt so drawn to a stranger before—it was equal parts scary and exciting. He could be a criminal. He could have a wife and three kids. He could be a workaholic who would ultimately make no time for her. He could have a basement full of bodies. He could have friends that she couldn’t stand to be around. He could have the most dreadful and overbearing mother. He could have views and values that were irreconcilable with her own.

But it didn’t feel that way.

It didn’t feel that way, and—as the river came into view and the sky lit up with colours reminiscent of his drawings—she was already imagining holding his hand.