Emmy by Haley_Writes
This was technically written before “Hate Fucking Emmy”, but I’ve reworked it as a prequel. You do not need to have read HFE to enjoy this. Thank you 🙂
***
I notice her across the crowded cafĂ©. She’s reading the same book I am–Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation–and sipping a frothy cappuccino. She’s seems lost in its pages, biting her bottom lip as her dark eyes move from side to side, taking in the words of the sci-fi story. I look away, not wanting her to notice me staring, and try to read myself. But I can’t… I feel drawn towards her. Why? I see loads of pretty girls every day and I don’t make a move on them. That’s just not me. I’m way too awkward to strike up a conversation with a random girl, no matter how attractive I find her.
So why I have stood up? Why am I making my way through the café towards her? Oh, fuck what am I doing? Oh god, why am I standing next to her?
Well, say something then, you fucking idiot.
I try, but nothing comes out. The demon that is anxiety has its hands around my neck, the cold, skeletal fingers constricting my throat and stopping any words from forming. My mouth feels like sandpaper. Can’t feel my legs. I think my heart might actually explode.
Okay, she hasn’t noticed me yet. I’ll just turn around and go back to my seat and hope no one in the cafĂ© is wondering why that strange guy just got up, walked across the room, then turned and walked back again. Wait, maybe I could pretend to look out the window, make it look as if I got up to look at something outside.
‘Uh… hey?’ She looks up at me, a puzzled look on her face.
Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. Say something. Now. Say it. I’m just staring at her.
‘…Hey…’ I croak.
‘Can I help you?’ She smiles politely but is quite obviously confused.
‘No… I’m… uh… sorry.’ I’m an idiot. This is the type of shit I have nightmares about. I’m literally never gonna forget this. I’ll be replaying this over and over again in my mind. I’ll lie in bed tonight, thinking what a stupid fucking fool you made of yourself. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life–just like that time I fell over on the bus and pretended that I’d hurt myself instead of just getting up walking away. I force my legs to move and turn around.
‘Where you up to?’ she asks.
I turn back, awkwardly say ‘W-what?’
She points at the copy of Annihilation that I have tucked under my arm, then gestures to her copy. ‘Where you up to?’ She asks again and smiles sweetly.
‘Oh… oh, the book!’ I laugh nervously, ‘About halfway. What about you?’
‘Same. I enjoyed the film and thought I’d give the book a go.’
‘I never got around to seeing it.’ I say, ‘I’ll give it a watch when I’m finished.’ And like that, my mind goes blank. The channel has changed and now it’s just static and white noise.
Luckily, she speaks, ‘Wanna sit and read together?’
‘What?’ I say, ‘Like, here. With you?’
‘Yeah. Why not? I could use the company,’ she giggles, ‘unless, you’re with someone?’
‘No… no. On my own.’
‘Then sit your butt down. Us loners have got to stick together.’
‘Yeah, I guess we do.’ I say, suddenly feeling at ease, and sit down across from her.
We smile at each other and open our books. She begins to read, but I only pretend to. I keep glancing up from the page to look at her.
The word beautiful would be an understatement. She’s a redhead–which happens to be my type–and has messy bangs that sit over a dimpled, pixie-like face. Her eyes, as mentioned before, are dark and big, but still with an air of youthful innocence to them. She turns a page, and the sleeve of her baggy cardigan rides up, and I see that she has a tattoo on her right arm. I can’t make it out, but it looks like roses or some other sort of flower. I wonder if she has tattoos anywhere else on her body.
She looks up from the book and I quickly look down. Did she notice me checking her out? I’ve fucked it. She probably thinks I’m a creep. I let a moment pass, acting as if I’m engrossed in the book, then cautiously glance up. She’s reading again but smiling to herself.
‘So, what’s your name?’ she asks, not looking up.
‘Grey.’
‘Hmm, you don’t look like a Grey.’
‘What do I look like?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘I dunno,’ she says, ‘An Edward maybe. Or a William. Or Harry.’
‘They’re all pretty… royal names,’ I smirk. ‘What about you?’
‘Guess.’ She says, flashing a mischievous look.
‘Hanna.’
‘Way off.’
‘Rachel.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, ‘Florence?’
‘Here. I’ll help,’ she says, ‘it begins with an “e”‘
‘Erin.’
‘Wrong,’ she says, grinning. ‘Once life left. Make it count.’
‘Er, Eileen?’
‘Yeah, right!’ She laughs, ‘Do I look like a fifty-five-year-old housewife?
‘No. You definitely don’t.’
‘Emmy,’ she says, ‘my name is Emmy.’
I chuckle, ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Emmy.’
‘And it’s very nice to meet you too, Grey. What do you do? Are you a student at the uni?’ she asks.
‘I was. I graduated last year.’
‘What did you study?’
‘English Literature, which as you can imagine has opened so many job opportunities.’ I say sarcastically, ‘Are you a student?’
‘Yep,’ she says, closing the book, ‘Art History.’
‘How are you finding it?’
‘It’s been fine so far–the work that is. Everything else has been… chaotic.’ She smiles again, but I catch a flash of sadness in her eyes.
‘How so?’ I ask.
‘I miss home. And my family. I know they’re not that far away, like I could literally get on a train and visit them in less than two hours, but still… it feels weird being on my own.’
‘I understand,’ I say, ‘I felt the same way. One day I was just a normal kid at home and then next I was in a strange city with no friends or family. I guess that independence takes a while to get used to. When I first moved into my student flat I didn’t even though how to switch the boiler on. Or how to use the oven. And one time the lights went out and I had to go out to the fuse box and I nearly electrocuted myself.’ I suddenly feel as if I’m rambling so I stop.
‘Yeah, same,’ she says, ‘honestly, I don’t know how I’ve survived this long. If not for microwavable noodles I would’ve starved months ago.’
We both laugh. After a moment of silence, I begin to say something, but she speaks first, ‘Would you like my number?’
‘What–I mean yes–Yeah, sure.’ I say.
She takes out a pen and scribbles on a napkin. ‘Here you go,’ she says and slides it over. ‘I’ve got to dash. I promised my flatmate that’d I’d help her prepare for an essay.’ She stands up and leans down to pick up her bag. I force myself to look away so she doesn’t see me checking her out. ‘Nice to meet you, Grey.’ She walks past me and I catch the scent of her perfume. It’s sweet and floral and fills my nostrils.
‘You too, Emmy.’ I say and she leaves the cafĂ©. I watch her through the window. It’s begun to rain, and she opens an umbrella and crosses the street, then disappears around a corner.
I look at the napkin. Her number is written in neat prose, and underneath she has doodled a cartoon smiley face and underneath that is a message: Call me.
****
It’s been two days since I met Emmy at the cafĂ©. I’m stood near a bus stop and it’s raining heavily. I decide to call her. My heart is beating fast–feels like someone is dribbling it like a basketball. The phone rings out in my ear. I’m worried she’s not gonna pick up, or even worse: she gave me a fake number. Come on. Come on. It seems to be ringing out forever–until I hear a click.