Where do I start with a tale so odd yet so fantastic that some people might think I have made it up?   I am not a writer.  I know this because even thinking about how to begin a story fills me with the sort of dread that results in me never writing anything down.  Maybe because this tale is true it will be easier to relay.   If I am honest about events and feelings, people and places I will worry less about fancy words and grammar!

I wish I could rewind to a minute before I met him for the first time, that way I could savour what I now can’t remember.  I know when and where we met but I cannot say that I remember looking into his eyes for the first time or the first words we exchanged.  I often wonder - if I could replay those few seconds again – would I act any differently, knowing what I know now? If I had of acted differently would the outcome still have been the same?  I am not even sure that that first meeting was the beginning of this story but then, as it stands, it has no end...

[Julia]

I'd been working at a bookstore down by the seafront for a few months. It was one of those little eccentric ones, you know the kind, with old leather sofas leaking stuffing and old newspaper articles pinned up on the walls. It didn't look like much from the outside - well, it didn't look like much from the inside either, if it came to that. But it was one of those old buildings with about a million tiny rooms all leading off one another, so it seemed like you could wander around in it forever, or at least the best part of an afternoon, just going round one more corner, or up another narrow staircase. It was run by some old guy who looked as though he might have lived his whole life right there in the shop. Maybe he was born there. Or maybe he just kind of grew there, like mould. Either way, he didn't ask any questions, and that was fine by me.

I found that most people did. Ask questions, I mean. But never any that were going to cause me problems. It was tourists mostly. Elderly couples here for the sea air and the view. They'd ask about local history and places of interest. Or they'd want me to recommend a good guidebook or a nice picnic site. Nothing, well... personal. There was the occasional old lady, who'd look at me as I swiped her credit card through the antiquated machine, tip her head to one side, and get that "You know, you remind me of my daughter..." look. "Have you been hear long, dear? It must lovely being so near the sea all the time..." It was easy to smile and agree that, yes, it was just lovely. So I suppose that was why I noticed him, when he started coming to the shop. Because he wasn't like that. He didn't ask any questions, in fact he barely spoke. He didn't even look me in the eye. Maybe people like us always notice each other. People with something to hide. 

[Roxy]

I remember when I noticed his eyes. It was a rainy, windy day. The kind that makes you feel like the dampness is working its way right into your bones. The air smelled like the ocean. I had decided to wear my new boots to work, though I hated wearing new shoes when it was raining. I just didn't have it in me to work out another outfit. I ran the last block to the bookstore, and noted how everything, the lampposts, the sky, the sidewalk and shopfronts, had turned to the same steel gray colour. Like living in an old movie. I opened the door, the little bell that hung on it chiming my arrival. My LATE arrival. I shook the rain off of my hooded coat. "I'm sorry I'm late." I apologized to the old shopkeeper. He didn't say a word, but gestured towards the adjacent room, where I could see someone was sitting in one of the chairs. I grabbed the stack of books I had to finish putting away, as it so happened, in the same room with the early visitor. As I walked over, I smiled at the little tapping noise my boots made on the old wooden floor, I liked that. I had three books that belonged on the shelf right next to the chair and its guest. I decided I'd put those away first, curious to see who was sitting there. When I went around the chair, I felt I was being watched. "Great boots" he says, and upon turning to say my thanks, his eyes met mine ever so briefly, and I was struck by their azure colour, on this dreary gray day. I remembered those old-fashioned pictures I'd seen at one of the seaside shops, where they paint colours on top of black & white photos. I only had a fraction of a second to notice how quickly he tucked his feet under the long trenchcoat. He must be cold, I thought.

turn the page