The Cosy Square

There's a cosy square near the centre of town where it's nice to sit outside and enjoy a summer's evening drink. It meets a park on it's western facing end, so the sun can shine in until late. The square has a very historical and clean feel, with old, well maintained cream coloured buildings. The bars and restaurants are quirky and lively, without being noisy, and semi-professional buskers play decent guitar or saxophone, or juggle, sometimes with fire.

I try to get my friends to chose that square as much as possible for our weekend meet-ups. Often they're enthusiastic, other times they complain and gang up on me, so we end up going somewhere else; a beer garden or a restaurant or somewhere. Wherever we end up I'll spend at least some of the time pining for a table in the middle of that cosy square, surrounded by people chatting and enjoying the top-class ambience.

One particularly gorgeous Saturday evening, all my friends were busy for some reason or another; some were away on holidays, other's had family events to attend. I was at a loose end, so I went to the square by myself, luckily finding a table in the sun. I got myself a Leffe, settled down, and read my book; Hemingway's “The Sun Also Rises”. After a few minutes I was feeling extremely contented, forgetting my troubles which were now eminently forgettable, and just fitting in with the whole sitting-by-yourself-enjoying-a-drink-and-a-good-book-in-the-sunshine scene.

The book helped; it was all about romantic people feeling lonely and drinking alcohol in splendid places. After a while, I began to be more and more thankful that I was alone, in the sense of being single. I listened to the conversations around me; most were between friends, but there were a few couples. To my ears it seemed that these couples were either sitting far too quietly, or were having dull conversations about domestic items and activities. It was all just things they'd bought or wanted to buy for their homes, or things they were doing to their homes, or were in the process of buying or doing for the sake of their homes. The Leffe tricked through me, and I began relishing the feeling of just sitting there, unmolested, home-free.

An uncharacteristically long period of self contentment followed. I just kept on revelling in it, until she approached me.

“For some reason I wanted to buy you a drink. Do you mind?”

Stood in the direction of the still unset sun, all I could see were her two hands, one holding a pint of cider, the other a bottle of Leffe. She poured it into to my almost empty glass, sat down opposite, and I got my first proper look at her. Her eyes sparkled intelligently, her smile endeared, and she had the colourfully made-up look of a happy bunny who never brushes her hair. Still, I felt I had to say:

“Well, actually I was having a pretty nice time here by myself.”

She picked up her cider and sipped it, looking at me with her twinkly eyes. She said nothing.

“Did you hear? I don't need company. You must have friends around here somewhere?”

I made a show of looking around for them.

“Why must I have friends here?” she replied. “I could have come on my own... like you.”

“If you came on your own, you would have brought a book. Where's your book?”

I made a show of looking at her little leather bag, which was obviously too small to hold any book. She smiled, rather too bravely, then put a hand in her bag, producing a fluffy red felt covered notebook and a twinkly glass decorated pen.

“Here.”

I stared at it's suggestive fluffiness.

“You are an idiot, by the way. Whatever your name is. I've just been sat over there on that table on my own, writing in this notebook.”

She motioned to a vacant table in the corner. When I looked back at her, both the smile and the twinkle had vanished.

“You really don't want to share a drink with me? Just a drink? Am I so bad? Never mind, the moment's gone. I couldn't share a drink with you now. And to think, I just wrote a poem about you, sitting there like that... Can you believe that? What a fool I must be. Drink the drink, don't worry. I'll be going now.”

She made a show of finishing off her cider in one go. Then she stood up, opened her notebook and flashed a scribble covered page inches from my face. As she did so, she looked down at the Hemingway, giving an unfelt laugh.

“I know I'm no Hemingway, but you could have given me a chance.”

She strode towards the park, golden blond hair flaying in the setting sunlight. I sensed nearby tables directing thoughts at me. Ignoring them, I sipped the Leffe.

I continued sipping the Leffe. The more I thought about the whole episode, the worse I felt. She was actually quite attractive, entirely my type; just chose the perfectly wrong moment to approach me. I sipped some more, thinking about it, feeling even worse. She'd written a poem about me, and actually, she'd observed me at just the right moment. She'd caught me at my best. I kept on sipping the Leffe she'd bought. All the problems that had dissolved so effortlessly found new form. It was a rare privilege to squander my loose ends romanticizing about sitting alone, reading Hemingway and sipping Leffe, but I needed a woman. I sipped her Leffe until it was finished. Being sat alone suddenly seemed very wrong. It also occurred to me that on any other night she never would have noticed me.

I stood up, trying not to look around at all the tables. I left the square through the park end, where the trees were strewn with fading sunlight.