Literary Love

Love was in the crisp autumn air, as I strutted jauntily towards the City Book Fair.

Books summon up romance in my mind. More specifically, the image of a woman with whom I instantly fell in love as she pored over a textbook in the university library, way back when.

Way back when, round John Lennon glasses were big. And round. And she was wearing them, thus completing a vision of delectation which encompassed ebony ringlets falling forward over her flawlessly creamy face, a few freckles, a beauty spot … and a purple tie-dyed t-shirt with pink-paisley-patterned trim which, damn, I just cannot seem to edit out of my mind’s eye.

I sat entranced by her every move, sadly limited to her turning a page every ten minutes or so and, even less frequently, flicking back a ringlet, for a full two hours during which I read diddly-squat of the prep notes for my exam the next day.

Should you be wondering: no, I never spoke so much as a word to her – let alone invited her for coffee at the Arab coffee bar.  Fred, then as now, was struck dumb by beauty. And, anyway, you’re not allowed to talk in libraries, right?

It was to be very different at the Book Fair. But it was perhaps misguided of me to walk straight into a discussion about “Violence Against Women”.
Three female authors were taking turns to talk about their personal experiences of abuse by men and, looking around, I noted that many women looked rather brittle and tearful. Hardly a classic scenario for romance.

That’s when I saw her. She was sitting to my left, in the row directly in front of me.  Dressed stylishly, she sat with excellent posture, listening intently to one of the authors describe how writing about her experience of being raped had helped free her of trauma’s grip.

She had long, dark hair and a pretty face. There was something about her.  There was, of course, something about the environment in which I was looking at her. This was neither the time nor the place. I silently rebuked myself and averted my gaze back to the speaker, attempting to grasp the horror of her story.
I felt again that too-familiar shame of belonging to the gender which perpetrates violent acts of lust and power on the “gentler sex”, the very people whose wombs shape our foetuses, whose nurturing shape our formative years, whose compassion and sacrifice shape the people we become. And, sometimes, the animals we become.

When it was over, about thirty women and I headed for the door. The woman who had earlier caught my eye got to the door at the same time as I – strange, that – and I stood aside to allow her through. She gave me a somewhat sad smile, and I smiled back.

She walked in front of me for a while and disappeared into the loo. I went to get a coffee and was straining my eyes to catch the football score on a distant TV screen when she sat down at a nearby table.

I resisted going over to introduce myself, thinking that whatever comment I passed about the discussion, would only seem patronising.
I checked the time. I was almost late for the talk by “Zapiro”, the political cartoonist. I rushed upstairs, made it just before the door closed and found a place to stand at the back of a jam-packed room.

Zapiro was relating hilarious anecdotes around his cartoons and the audience was in full howl.

A chirruping chortle came from directly next to me. It was her. Our laughing eyes met.  And held. She looked at my chest, pushed her fingers through her hair and, still giggling, turned back to Zapiro.

“I’m Fred,” I panted as I caught up with her afterwards. “Zapiro is a hero of mine. And so funny behind the mike too.”
“Yes, he’s brilliant. My name is Amy.”

“Erm, hi Amy, would you like a coffee?” I ventured.

“Yes, sure, why not?” We had a light, Zapiro-inspired conversation about books and the power of satire. Amy was visiting the city to help a friend at the fair and, no, she wasn’t doing anything that night.

Coffee spilled over into dinner at Savoy Cabbage and later, much later, at the Waiting Room, we were still talking ten to the proverbial dozen while the young and feckless revelled on the dancefloor.

When DJ Lucky dug into his funky nu-jazz crate, I asked Amy if she’d like to dance and, to my delight, she took my hand and dragged me into the fray.
I flung myself about furiously and Freddily and she laughed at my manic moves, before leaning into me and declaring: “I love the way you dance, Fred.”
Over her shoulder I saw a couple of kids locked in a very public kiss. I couldn’t help myself. I drew her gently into my arms and brushed her lips with mine. Her eyes widened and, for a split second, everything, the entire room, seemed to slow right down.

She raised her face and parted her lips. My world skidded to a halt as we kissed with delicious delicacy. A minute seemed like an entire hour, an hour was a mere minute and, in no time at all, we were leaving The Waiting Room and heading for the main event.

As we got into the car, Amy said: “I’ve had a beautiful evening, Fred. Could you drop me at the hotel?  I have an early start.”

“Of course,” I replied.

“And, Fred, I’d love you to come by our stand tomorrow, er, later today, and say hi. I only fly back home on Tuesday.”

With thanks to The Weekend Argus