He’s carrying his own grocery bags, his tattooed forearms flexing from the strain. He glides up to me with long, confident steps and stands a bit too close for comfort. A raw, sexual energy emanates from him.
Good Lord…
He waits for a moment to see if I’ll say anything, and then flashes a wide grin. His canine teeth are slightly prominent, giving him an overall very wolfish appearance.
These plastic grocery bags are cutting into my hands. Argh, why did Nita ask us to bring home so much food? Maybe I should invest in one of those grocery carriers on wheels I see little old grannies toting around town? Then again, maybe not.
Wait, what? I think he just said something.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
He laughs. “I said, do you live close by?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, are you planning to walk all the way home with four heavy grocery bags?”
“No, I’m taking the LRT home.”
He takes two bags from me, while also carrying his own small purchase, and we walk in the direction of the LRT station.
“Thanks, Aaron.”
Hmm. I like the way his name sounds, rolling off my tongue.
“So, Sophie. Tell me all about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know everything about you,” he says matter-of-factly.
I laugh nervously. “What’s so interesting about me?”
“You fascinate me,” he says, glancing down at me with a cute shy smile.
Did I hear him right?
The hottest guy in the world tells me I’m fascinating, and now I have no idea of what to say back.
“Come on. Tell me just one thing about you,” he says.
At that moment, we pass by a poster advertising an upcoming football game.
“I’ve never been to a football game.”
He smirks. “Good to know. Anything else?”
“I want to travel when I’m done with school.”
“What are you taking?”
“General studies.”
“Not sure what you want to be when you grow up, eh?”
I snort derisively. “All I know is that I want a job that I really, really love. I just have no idea of what that is yet.”
He nods, and makes a “Go on” motion with his hands.
He’s not going to let up, is he? Smiling, I resign myself to this rather fun interrogation.
“Umm, I love books. And the Rolling Stones. And I never, ever pick up guys at Safeway by smashing their hands.”
“The Stones, eh? I’ve always been more of a Beatles fan.”
He did not just say that!
“Then we were never meant to be,” I reply, grinning.
“So how do you normally ‘pick up guys’ then?”
“I don’t. I’m a stay-at-home-and-read-a-book kind of girl.”
“That seems to fit you. You’ve got that sexy-librarian thing going on.”
I glance down at my light blue blouse, black pencil skirt, and black ballet flats. I guess it is a little librarianesque. All I need now are thick glasses and a glare I can throw at noisy children.
“And you? I imagine you’re swimming in pickup attempts,” I say.
“I’d say the same about you,” he adds quietly, his brow furrowed.
He puzzles me so much. How can he be so disarmingly confident one moment, and shy and unsure the next? I don’t know what to make of him.
“I’m sure every guy notices you,” he says.
“Oh yeah right,” I say, blushing.
Change the subject, change the subject.
“So, tell me about you,” I say.
He’s quiet. Did he hear me?
“My last name is Page,” he eventually says. He almost sounds surprised that I’d be interested in knowing about him. “I’m from Ontario. I moved out here this summer to finish my degree. I’m getting my BA in linguistics. That’s about it.”
I highly doubt that’s all there is to him.
And linguistics? I would have expected something more artistic, like music studies or drama. He just looks like that type.
I don’t know what a linguist is supposed to look like, but I certainly never pictured anyone with a ton of tattoos.
Hmm…Aaron. Aaron Page.
Moments later, we arrive at the station. I’m surprised at how the time has flown. Our fingers brush when he returns my grocery bags.
“Well, this is me. Thanks for your help.”
A sense of loss washes over me as I search for a seat. Am I ever going to see him again?
“That’s it?”
I turn around and see him leaning casually against the LRT door frame.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’d just walk away after all my best attempts at flirting? The palpable sexual tension?” He’s grinning wickedly now.
Sexual tension? With ME!?
Okay, play it cool. Play. It. Cool.
“I say we leave it up to fate. If we’re meant to see each other again, then we will.”
Aaron looks at me for a moment.
“Fuck fate.”
Euphoria nearly bursts my chest open. He steps into the cabin and the doors snap behind him. He’s seated next to me for several moments before I think of anything to say. And even when I think of something, I can’t quite spit it out.
I’m too intimidated to look at his face, so I focus on his forearms. I’ve never seen such exquisitely detailed tattoos before, a bright swirl of animals, water, and leaves. They must have cost a fortune. He has black script on each inner forearm, but his arms are crossed so I can’t read them.
“What do your tattoos mean?”
He glances down at his arms, and stretches them outward.
“It’s the Garden of Eden,” he replies. His voice has a deep, musical quality.
“Are you religious?”
“Not particularly. Although I do believe God exists, and that we’re all here because of Him. But, I’m not a Holy Roller or anything.”
“Then why cover yourself with a biblical story?”
He’s thoughtful for a moment, and I take the opportunity to glance up at him. He notices me anyway, and flashes a sideways grin.
“I chose it because it represents perfection. What life could have been, before corruption. It’s about wanting an ideal, but never ever being able to attain it. About what life could have been, and should have been, but can never be. It’s bittersweet, and for that reason, it’s beautiful.”
Wow.
I knew he was gorgeous, but sometimes pretty people aren’t very deep puddles, so I hadn’t expected much.
“What’s written on your forearms?”
He stretches his left arm across me, barring me in my seat. His breath and the scent of his skin mingle under my nose, and I feel a bit light-headed.
“I have a different quote on each arm. Both are written in three languages.”
Sure enough, three lines of neat black script are on each arm. The top lines are in English. On his left forearm, he has written:
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
And on his right forearm:
The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.
Why are those quotes significant to him? I’m tempted to ask, but I’m afraid to pry. I don’t know him that well. Yet.
“Okay, enough about me. I want to know about you,” he says, and angles his body toward me.
At that moment, the LRT stops and a ton of people file in. The cabin is nearly full. A tiny, wrinkled lady with white hair stands in the aisle, grabbing onto poles and seats as we’re jostled toward the next stop.
Aaron stands, and gently taps her shoulder. She turns around and eyes him up appreciatively. I laugh to myself. Just because you’re old doesn’t mean your libido is dead.
“Thank you, young man,” she trills, and flashes a relieved smile. “You have a lovely boy
friend, my dear. Such a gentleman. And so handsome!”
I feel my face flush. “Oh no, he’s not…”
“…not troubled at all,” he interjects. “I’m happy to give up my seat, especially for a beautiful lady like you.”
She turns toward me and giggles, as if we’re the best of friends obsessing over a boy. Perhaps we never really grow out of those feelings; only movies and society make us think that growing old somehow strips us of who we are.
Hmm. Maybe I can touch on that subject in my next essay.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I meet Aaron’s amused gaze.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just thinking about school. I have an essay coming up, and I’m trying to decide on a subject.”
“Which class?”
“Sociology.”
“I took a couple sociology courses back home. If you have any trouble, let me know. I’d be happy to help.”
“Any other hidden talents in your repertoire? I should have a thorough list, just in case.”
“I have various talents…” He trails off.
“Care to indulge me?”
“Oh, I’d like to indulge in a few things with you…”
The lady with white hair starts fanning herself.
“A list of things you could do to help me with school would be more helpful,” I counter.
He laughs at us. “Okay. I’m no expert by any means, but I’ve taken courses in computer science, physics, history, art, music, biology, chemistry, philosophy, you name it.”
“How did you manage to have time for all of that, and a BA?” I ask.
“I started off like you in general studies, not really knowing where my life was headed. I sat in on a few linguistics courses in my third year, and everything just clicked.”
I mentally list off the different courses he’s mentioned. It just doesn’t fit with his dark, tall, and tattooed look.
Can nerds be sexy?
“Underneath all that muscled handsomeness, you’re just a big nerd, aren’t you?”
“I prefer ‘geek,’ ” he says. “So. You think I’m handsome?”
Oops. That kind of slipped out. Time to change the subject.
“So why did you transfer out here? Ontario must have linguistics programs.”
His features darken fractionally, and he looks away.
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s okay,” he says. “I just needed to get away. My parents weren’t exactly happy with my schooling choice.”
“They have something against a bachelor of arts? Or language studies?”
“Something like that.”
I quirk up an eyebrow. His confident, upbeat demeanor has slipped away, revealing someone who looks very tired.
“They don’t think it’s practical, that there won’t be many job opportunities for me. They’re really conservative, and protective. They’d rather I became something more ‘useful,’ ” he says, bending his fingers in quotation gestures. “Like a doctor, lawyer, or something.” He waves his hand dismissively through the air, and looks away.
“I don’t know much about language studies,” I say. “What can you do with a linguistics degree?”
Annoyance flashes over his face. I get the feeling he’s had to defend himself a few too many times, and it’s a sore subject.
“Lots of things, actually,” he replies. “I could go into computer science, cognitive science, speech-language pathology, be a translator. Although the area I’m most interested in is linguistic anthropology.”
“And that entails?”
“Are you sure? This can get a bit boring…”
“No, I don’t mind.”
You could never, ever be boring to me.
“Well, linguistic anthropology studies how language affects social life, how language use and structure influences culture over time. Although there is a growing focus on languages that are dying out.”
He looks up to see if I’m still listening.
“Go on.” I smile encouragingly.
The next twenty minutes, he prattles on, peppering his speech with words like “semantics,” “morphology,” and “syntax.” He is so smart.
Note to self: what is a “syntax” anyway? Sounds like some horrid thing invented by accountants.
The LRT grinds to a halt, and I notice familiar surroundings.
“This is my stop,” I say.
“Oh…” Aaron says, looking around. “I’m sorry, I’ve been talking about myself the whole time. I really want to get to know you better, Sophie.”
He curls my name around his tongue. I’ve never heard a more seductive sound.
“You’ll get your chance,” I say flirtatiously, and his wicked grin is back in place.
I gather my grocery bags and head toward the exit.
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
“Like I said, let’s leave this up to fate. If we’re meant to find each other, then we will.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”
A thrill runs through me. I get the feeling that he enjoys a challenge. And rightly so. I imagine women throw themselves at him all the time.
“See you tomorrow, Aaron Page,” I carelessly call over my shoulder.
Good acting, Sophie. I feel anything but careless and nonchalant.
“See you tomorrow, Sophie. Hey, Sophie what?”
“Richards.”
Muffled steps echo behind me. I turn around, and he’s standing a few inches away from me.
He takes the plastic bags from my hands and sets them on the ground. Grasping my right hand, he raises it to his lips and plants a soft kiss.
“It was lovely meeting you, Sophie Richards. See you tomorrow.”
I would say goodbye, but my tongue is tied into fine knots again. He takes a few steps backward into the LRT. He waves, and I wave back. Weakly.
Did that really just happen?
Clouds seem to cushion my feet. I feel weightless, and my feet don’t touch the ground all the way home.
Chapter 9
No Expectations
September 26, 2008
I haven’t seen Aaron at all today. Where is he?
Why did I let him go before exchanging numbers? My nonchalant “Oh, let’s let fate decide” routine was a bunch of bull crap, and now I may have lost my chance forever. I’ve been scanning the crowds, searching my classes, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere.
Did I just imagine him?
Nope, not possible. Even my imagination couldn’t have come up with him. And I’ve read a ton of books. My imagination muscles are in fine working condition.
Maybe this is his thing. Hitting on a new girl every day, making her feel special, and then BOOM, dropping her like yesterday’s garbage.
I bet it is. Women, even older women, notice him. I was just the flavor of the week.
How could I have been so stupid?
I’m rushing through a hallway, not really paying attention to where I’m going. The halls are surprisingly packed, but I manage to get through without trouble. Well, almost manage…
“Hey! You idiot, you knocked my books over!” yells a heavily accented voice. She looks furious, her dark brown eyes shooting daggers into my dark green ones.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Here, let me help you.”
How many books exactly was she carrying? At a glance, I think there are ten. And some of them are very heavy. Doesn’t she have a backpack?
Low, aggressive sounds of someone cursing at me in a foreign tongue draw my attention.
“Look, I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you,” I say.
This only incites her further. I’m bent over, picking up the remaining books, when I hear a familiar, deep voice quietly talking above me.
It’s Aaron.
And he’s speaking another language.
The young woman’s eyes widen, and she takes a sharp breath. In a moment, she turns on her heel and stomps
away, a teetering pile of books threatening to fall down again.
“It’s you,” I say, smiling.
He shoots a megawatt smile back. “It’s me.”
Aaron offers his hand, and helps me to my feet.
“What did you say to her anyway?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“I hope you didn’t say anything too bad,” I reply.
He laughs my comment off. “I wasn’t mean to her, just direct. So, fate must want us together. Quite badly, in fact. It’s the third time we’ve met.”
“Yeah, yeah, a real-life case of star-crossed lovers.”
He smiles, and walks silently beside me.
“Do you live on the south side too?’ I ask.
“No. Why?”
“Because you rode the LRT to the south end yesterday.”
He lets out a small embarrassed chuckle. “I rent a house with some buddies downtown. It took me six stops to get back home.”
“Wow, you must have it bad,” I tease.
“You have no idea.”
My heart beats a bit faster, and I force myself to look away.
“What language were you speaking anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”
“Turkish.”
“Turkish?”
“Yes. I speak five languages fluently. I’m learning my sixth, but it’s a work in progress. Mandarin is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
My puny French vocabulary from eighth grade seems really insignificant now.
“And besides English and Turkish, you can speak…”
“French, Italian, and Spanish. Once you learn one of the Romance languages, it’s easier to pick up the others.”
He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal.
“How did you learn so many?”
“My dad is from Quebec and my mom is from Martinique, so I spoke French and English growing up. Then, Italian and Spanish in high school. I want to work in Turkey after university, so I figured, what the hell.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop right there. How am I ever going to impress this guy? Not only is he gorgeous, but he’s smart! He’ll never be interested in me.
“So…I was wondering,” he begins.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any plans tonight?”
Groups of young women have gathered around us, traveling in flocks to get a better look at Aaron. They remind me of seagulls, screeching, pecking around.
Can't Always Get What You Want Page 8