There's something about the light in the Pacific Northwest. It's different. Crisper. Whiter. Even at Golden Hour.
It streamed across my laptop on the table by the window in the corner of the otherwise empty Kitsilano coffee shop, obscuring the text I was I was trying to read. Picking up the red pen I struck through the corresponding paragraph in the stapled set of pages next to my stack of frosted sugar cookies. Act One revised. Two more to go.
It had taken me three days to get this far. With three days left in my vacation it looked like I wasn't going to finish editing the script. Once I got back to work I wouldn't have time, so I needed to buckle down and get it done. Maybe if I spent a little less time admiring the sunsets....
The door swung open ringing the bell. I looked up to a woman walking in; tall and slender, in boot cut jeans, soft shell blue/white motorcycle jacket and a Rockies baseball cap. She shuffled quietly to the counter, the soles of her sneakers scuffing over the tile. She stopped just short, planting both fists on the counter before examining the menu board.
The barista strode over to take her order; a string of decadent-sounding words with references to milk and ice sprinkled in. As he busied himself blending the drink she turned and leaned on the counter. I snapped back to my screen, fingers blindly typing words I knew I'd later have to correct. A few moments later, when I thought it was safe, I stole another glance.
She slouched in a sunbeam, loose platinum blonde curls sparkling on her shoulders. The brim of the cap shadowed her face. Her shoulders drooped and her hands retreated into her sleeves. She oozed melancholy, which seemed a stark contrast to her style. Not that it was any of my business. Trying to focus, I returned to my script.
In the lull between pulses of the blender something rattled against the Corian. I peeked again, catching her swipe her phone from her back pocket. She stared at it a second before banging her thumbs on the screen and shoving it back into her jeans. Glad I wasn't on the other end of that text.
About halfway down the page the barista appeared with a tall clear cup filled with ice cubes, whipped cream and swirls. "That'll be $11.25," he said, setting it on the counter beside her. She reached into her jacket. Then snapped her hand out and patted her sides. Her head fell back.
"Fuuuuck."
She checked every pocket, rooting around and pulling some inside out. But she did not find what she was looking for. "Can I use my phone," she asked finally, frustration staining her voice. The barista nodded, gesturing toward the register.
She opened an app and waved the slab over the reader. A blip sounded instead of a chime. She tapped, then waved again. Same result. "Oh come on," she fumed. I don't know what came over me, but before I realized what I was out of my chair and walking toward them.
"Excuse me," I called to the barista, weaving round a table. I pinched two bills from my wallet and set them on the countertop. "Keep the change."
The woman looked at me. Her jaw was sharp and set, lips pursed, eyes just concealed by the glare on the lenses of narrow rectangular metal-framed glasses. She seemed tired. And anxious. And irritated.
And beautiful.
And vaguely familiar.
"You don't have to do that," she said softly.
"It's fine," I replied. "My turn to pay it forward."
I smiled. She turned away just as I thought I caught a lift in the corners of her mouth. With a nod to the barista, I retreated to my seat. The woman plucked a straw and napkin from the dispenser. Slipping the cup into a java jacket she scooped it all up and quietly left the shop. I took a deep breath and a bite of a cookie before getting back to work.
...
I'd scanned a few lines of dialogue when the bell on the door jingled again. I ignored it this time, determined to make some headway. But soon, footsteps stopped across from me and a shadow fell over the edge of the table.
"Do you mind if I sit," the woman asked.
I looked up, surprised to see her back. I motioned toward the empty chairs. "No, please," I replied, "help yourself."
She slid in across from me with barely a sound, setting her cup next to my plate. "Thank you," she said, "for the coffee. I don't know why my phone didn't work."
Her perfume tickled my nose, light sweet fruits over sandalwood and cedar base. "No problem," I shrugged. "It looked like you needed it."
"Yeah," she affirmed. "It's been one of those days."
She flipped off her ball cap and set it to the side, dropping her glasses gently on top. She raked her fingers through her hair and shook it out, sweeping stray locks from her eyes. I watched her, closer this time, and when her lips creased upward I froze mid-breath. I
knew
I recognized her.
"I'm Melissa," she said.
Of course she was
. That was her face, her hair, her voice. I couldn't believe I'd been duped by the old glasses on glasses off trope. Kicking myself under the table I tried to relax, formulate a response. Should I just say hello? Should I ask for an autograph? She was a ways from downtown, in a hat and glasses, maybe she didn't want to be noticed.
"Nice to meet you Melissa," I finally replied. It was all I could do not to stutter and blubber. "I'm Bishop."
Her eyebrows raised. "Bishop?"
I nodded. "My parents had aspirations. Needless to say, they're terribly disappointed."
She laughed. Sipped her drink. I snatched the half-eaten cookie from the top of the stack and poked the plate in her direction. She eyed the frosted discs a moment before taking one and placing it on the napkin in front of her.
"So, Bishop," she began, "you're a writer?"
My brain blipped out each time she said my name. "Umm...what?"
She pointed to the pen pinched in my fingers. "Alone in a coffee shop with a laptop and a script, I just thought --"
"Oh, right, um...not yet. I'm working on it though." I paused, debating whether I should ask. Seemed like it would be weird not to. "What about you," I added. "What do you do?"
She flashed a smile at the window. "I...am an actor," she replied, turning back toward me. Her tone was flat, neither proud nor deprecating.
"Oh, cool," I said. "Anything I might have seen?"
"I doubt it," she lied, shaking her head. She took a drag on the straw, then pointed to my computer.
"Can I see it?"
I drew a blank, tapping the paper to buy time. It wasn't ready to be read -- that was the whole purpose of the edit. On the other hand, an industry professional was asking to see my work. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Uhh...yeah, sure." I spun the laptop and eased it toward her. Biting into her cookie she started to read.
Her skin glowed in the evening light. Dark eyeshadow and thin black liner drew sharp contrast to her liquid blue irises. She scanned the screen, back and forth, dragging fingers down the touchpad to scroll the pages. I waited for a sign -- an eyebrow lift, curled lip -- anything to signal she was enjoying the read. But she gave me nothing. The longer she was quiet the more nervous I became, wringing my hands in my lap.
Finally, she twirled the computer back to me and reached for her drink. My nerves frayed. "Okay," she said after a mouthful of coffee, "I like it. It's clever. What's it about?"
Relief flushed my pores. Clever felt like quite the compliment at this stage. Gathering my thoughts I recited my elevator pitch, paying close attention not to spoil anything in my excitement. By the time I finished she was smiling at me, with the hint of a nod in the motion of her chin.
"You might have something here," she said between nibbles of cookie.
I frowned. It was the opposite of what I felt, but it was the only motion my face would make.
"Really?"
"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'd watch it. It's a little niche, but there's an audience for it. Just need to get it to the right person."
"Huh." I didn't know what to say. So I said something stupid. "Well that's encouraging."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Annoyed, she fished it out and looked it, before rolling her eyes and stuffing it away. Her countenance darkened.
"Everything okay," I wondered.
She nodded, pursing her lips. "Yeah," she answered, unconvincingly, "it's just...work."
I nodded, not understanding at all. I knew the show was in its final season, so maybe that wasn't sitting right with her? But whatever was behind this seemed much more acute. More...present. She drummed her fingers on the table, staring outside.
"Do you umm...you want to get outta here?" She looked back at me, eyes heavy, but expectant.
"Uhhh...sure," I replied, pretending I needed to think about it. "Where do you want to go?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Somewhere pretty."
I'd spent a lot of time in Vancouver -- it was my favorite city to visit. But I'd never stayed in this neighborhood before. Other than the beach I didn't know what might be considered "pretty." There was one option I could offer. Buuut...it might be a little awkward. I didn't want to be
that
guy. But it was all I had.
"I'm not from around here," I admitted, "so I don't really know." I hesitated, hoping she'd bail me out. She didn't. I shrugged, wincing a little. "The place I'm staying at has a roof deck."
Her head tilted; eyebrows raised. "That sounds pretty."
....
We meandered the three blocks to my Vrbo, soaking up the sinking sun and musing about the city. The sidewalk was narrow, and our shoulders bumped and arms tangled as we walked. I tried not to crowd her, but she didn't seem to care. At times she seemed to do it on purpose.
She talked like she'd lived there her whole life; raving about her favorite spots to eat, the best trails through Stanley park, and the coolest spots for a quiet drink on the weekend or after work. By the time we crested the hill and arrived at the house I had a complete itinerary for my next visit.
I led her to up to the deck and returned to the kitchen to mix us a drink. There wasn't much in the cupboard; two airplane bottles of tequila and gin, and a cheap whiskey. I split the whiskey between two glasses and stirred in sour mix I found in the fridge. Returning it to the shelf I shut the door and slumped against the counter, quietly incredulous.
