Background
Thirty something, Jameson meets seventy something, Iris. They strike up an unlikely friendship. This is their story.
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This is the story of a friendship between a young man and an older woman. Their bond grows as they meet for coffee over the course of several weeks.
This story is told from dual first person points of view.
This installment is from Jameson's point of view.
So far, Jameson's dog, an Irish wolfhound named Heston has escaped. He catches up to his pet as the dog approaches an older woman. There is something about this woman that makes him feel safe. They go get coffee.
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Jameson
Leaving the coffee shop and saying goodbye to Iris is surprisingly hard to do. She's very grounding, and with my life in the chaos it is now, it's a very good feeling to be around. I walk with her back to the pharmacy then start walking back home. I pull my phone from my pocket and check for messages or missed calls. Nothing from Claire. Her calls turned to texts after the first week apart, then the texts all but vanished.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained as they say. I press her number and wait.
"Hey," I say as soon as she answers the phone.
"I only have a minute. I'm on a list to get into an exclusive fashion show. What's up?"
"Just checking on you."
"I'm good. You?"
"I miss you."
"You're still coming to see Finny this weekend, aren't you?" she asks.
"Yes."
"We can catch up then. Oh crap, look, I've got to go."
"I love you," I whisper to the dead line.
When Heston and I get back to the duplex, I remember the groceries. "Well, Hessy, that's thirty bucks down the toilet." I look down at the dog. "I'd make you pay me back, jackass, but your little exploit turned out good."
Heston slurps from his water bowl then with his dripping mouth jumps up on the couch. I walk over to my home office/dining room. I hate what I do. I've always wanted to be a writer. But writing doesn't pay the bills ... at least mine didn't.
I used to write poetry in high school, but being on the smaller side, I got stuffed in a lot of lockers. And despite what they show in the movies, girls do not fall for poets.
I met Claire when I was doing a reading at a book shop. I'd written a counting poem for children. I remember Claire walking through the door. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bun and she looked bored out of her mind.
I had about eight or nine three-to-five year olds around me, and all I wanted to do was to finish my poem and go over to meet her. Maybe it was the reaction of the kids as they laughed at my silly rhyme, but she stood a few feet away, listening to my poem.
When I finally finished and had listened to the deep, critical feedback of my audience, she walked over.
"Shakespeare?" she teased.
"Voltaire," I said.
"That was cute. Did you write it?"
I nodded.
"Are they all yours?" She waved her hand at the virtual United Nations of small children.
"Still awaiting the paternity test on a few."
She looked around. "I hate bookstores," she said softly.
I'm not gonna lie, I remember feeling somewhat disappointed in hearing that.
"Hmm, give me a bookstore and I'm set for days," I said.
"I like concerts and sporting events. Nothing sexier than watching people playing football or soccer. Love to see the sweat glistening over tight sculpted muscles." She had this dreamy far off look on her face.
I remember feeling jealous of these imaginary athletes. "I've been known to break a sweat in here sometimes."
She giggled. "I'm Claire."
"Jameson Petry."
"Nice to meet you," she said. She looked past me and waved at someone. "I have to go. My friends are ready to leave."
"Well, I'm here most every weekend. In case you were wondering." It was a desperate hint, but at that moment all I wanted was for her to know I would be waiting to see her again.
Looking back, I should have seen the writing on the wall. We were too different. But she was the first pretty girl to pay attention to me. I fell in love at the very moment she first walked into the bookstore. I was under her spell. And I'm still under it.
She just doesn't feel the need to be bothered with me.
I put my phone on the table beside my keyboard. It's hard not to call her number again. Just to hear her voice.
We'll catch up. That's what she said on the phone. Maybe she's ready. Maybe this weekend I won't be driving home alone.
