Emma's POV
The cafe was abuzz with after-performance energy — but I was buried in my sketchbook, trying to sketch the way Alex's fingers had flicked across the guitar strings. My pencil danced with light, quick steps, reeling in the punch that had been in his eyes when he sang. I was so absorbed I had not heard him come up until his shadow fell across the page.
"That's not half bad," he said, his voice warm and teasing. "You did, however, make me look a little too serious," he said.
I started, raising a startled head and flushing slightly. "Well, you were all out up there," I said, closing the sketchbook.
Alex chuckled, nodding toward the vacant chair on the other side of me. "Mind if I join you?"
I cringed for a moment, and then I nodded. "Sure, go ahead."
He sat down on the bench and laid his guitar case beside him. "What did you think of that song, then? Not too sappy, I hope."
I laughed and thought of the soulful song he had sung to me personally. "No, it was perfect. Soulful, just like I asked."
"Good," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corner. "I aim to please."
We sat there for a while, sipping at our coffees in silence. So Alex leaned in and looked out. "So, Emma, what's your story? Why do you sketch strangers in cafés?"
I moved my cup over my saucer, considering what to say. I don't know, I kind of like the notion of freezing time. People in, people out, so fast, in a city like this. Drawing them as I see them feels like owning a piece of their story, even if I never see them again."
Alex nodded, thoughtful for a moment. "That's beautiful. It's like what I try to do with music — to try to preserve a feeling, a memory, so it doesn't go anywhere."
"Bingo," I said, impressed at how readily he got it. "It's a method that allows to capture something fugitive, and keep it there a little bit longer."
He smiled, and something warm spread in me. "Ok, so why do you want to draw certain people?"
I shrugged. "Something is wrong, something doesn't feel the way it does. Other times it's just a sense of — there being a story worth telling about it."
"Like dat guy in da fedora from before?" he teased with that all-too-sexy glint in his commanding eyes.
I laughed. "He was out of a noir movie, yeah. Maybe he's hiding something."
Alex slouched in his seat, drumming his fingers to a rhythm on the table. "And what about me? What made you sketch me?"
I bit my lip, suddenly shy. "You … you are like an on‐stage energy. It's like that you're singing your soul into that music. I wanted to capture that."
He looked at me for a long, long, long minute, just looking. "Thank you, Emma. That means a lot."
I'm the same way, I'm a tinker and I nodded, feeling the small tingle of a connection, because you read this book. To push things on, I asked, "What about you? What inspires your music?"
Alex's expression softened. "A lot of things — memories, feelings, people I've met. "Sometimes it's just a melody, and I make up a story to go around it."
"You write your own music?" I asked.
"Most of them, yeah. It's therapeutic, in a way. Helps me process things."
I suspected there was a lot more to that, but I didn't inquire. "I'd like to listen to more of your songs some time.
He grinned. "Well, you're in luck. I play here every week."
"I guess I'll have to start doing it all the time," I said, dismayed at how not-kidding I sounded.
As we talked, a cough formed in my chest. I tried to suppress it, but it came, out – gloomy and querulous. I turned my face away, my mouth muffled with my scarf, hoping it would pass me. When I looked back at Alex, his forehead was creased in concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently.
"Yeah, just a tickle," I lied, with a dismissive wave. "Must be the dry air."
He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he didn't pursue the matter. "So, what's next for you? Any big plans for your art?"
I bristled, a strange sensation causing my heart to skip a beat. "Hmmm well I've always had this fantasy to go to Paris and do a little painting by the Seine. You know, like the Impressionists."
His eyes lit up. "That sounds amazing. Why haven't you done it yet?"
I looked at my hands as they traced the lines of my sketchbook. "Let's say you know life will get in the way. Work, tasks… time. "
There was a meaning behind that last word, and I saw the light fade from Alex's face. "Funny thing, time," he whispered. "But if it's a priority, you find a way to do it."
I forced a smile. "Maybe I will. Someday."
"Why not now?" he pressed, his gaze intense. "What's stopping you?"
I was going to answer but wanted to cough, another cough seized me. I looked away again, and I had tears in my eyes. I glanced up to see Alex frowning at me with interest and alarm.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm O.K.," I said, my voice cracking. "Like … allergies or something."
He didn't push, though I could tell that I hadn't quite convinced him. I focus the spotlight on him: "And you? Any big dreams or plans?"
Alex leaned back and considered the question. "I always wanted to cut a record, maybe even tour a little. But for the time being I'm looking forward to playing music here and writing more songs.
"That would be really nice," I replied, and I did mean it. "You have a real gift."
"Thank you," he said, his smile returned. "Maybe I'll write a song one day about a mysterious artiste with a blue scarf," she added.
I laughed, and some of my nerves unclenched. "I'd like to hear that."
As the hour grew later, the café emptied, but neither one of us made a motion to leave. We talked about everything and nothing — favorite books, worst movies, the best street food in the city. It was easy and relaxed, like we'd known each other for years instead of just hours.
Once Alex reached over to point to something in my sketchbook and his hand accidentally grazed mine. I jumped with a stab, and retreated, surprised at the strength. Alex seemed to catch it, and gave me an questioning glance.
I swiveled my head, pulse racing. What was I feeling? We didn't even really know each other, and I was still being drawn there by some inescapable force.
'You know, I've always wanted to go to Paris,' Alex finally piped up." Maybe I'll tag along, play your muse or something."
I snickered, surprise in my voice, and chuckled. "Oh, really? And what makes you think I'd want a musician to hold me down?"
He feigned offense, hand over heart. "Slowing you down? I would sing the fuck out of you with my soulful tunes. You would be creating masterpieces in no time."
I just shook my head, still smiling. "Tempting, but I think it can survive."
"All right," he said, his voice softening. "But seriously, Emma, you should go. Don't wait for someday. Life's too short for that."
His words hung in the air – weighted with meaning. I swallowed, my throat tight. You're right," I whispered. "Maybe I will."
The café lights were out, they were closing up shop. Alex stood up, placed his guitar on, and then off, its carry sling. "I should get going. But I want to see you again, Emma. Maybe we can have coffee sometime and discuss art and music … and Paris.
My heart smiled and danced. "I'd like that."
He scribbled his number on a napkin and passed it to me. "Text me. I'm free most evenings."
"All right, napkin," I say. "I will."
He left, the door jangling behind him, and I leaned back, my head whirling. There was something about Alex — the verve, the intrinsic kindness — that I wanted to believe in possibilities again. But I shuffled my things around and felt my fingers hit against the napkin with his number. I tucked it inside my sketchbook, the corner of my lips lifting somewhat. Maybe I'd text him. Maybe I'd even give up enough of him for Paris. But for now I needed to go home, take my meds and rest. The cough was getting worse, and I couldn't keep ignoring it for long. But as I stepped out into the brisk night air, I got a twinkle of something else, something that tasted a whole lot like hope.