2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 77

Meanwhile, I keep on going to writers' meetups. On Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and Saturday afternoons. This Saturday, I arrive late (eek) at the Notting Hill meetup, and I go down the stairs. Our Saturday meetup is always held in the basement of this Starbucks in West London. I'm not sure if I've ever seen a café in Vancouver which sends their customers down into their dingy basements. But in London, it's very common. The basements, lit with recessed lighting, furnitured with overstuffed chairs, often yield large underground spaces that you never would have guessed existed if you just looked at the Starbucks from the street.

So I'm walking down the stairs, looking for an open chair. While nodding to the regulars, I see a man sitting in a sofa in the corner. I haven't seen this guy around here yet. He's Asian. The stranger's got a quiet intellectual (geeky) look that resembles computer interested boys from high school. He must be a Chinese grad student studying computer science in London. He looks like he's in his twenties or early thirties. He's got round glasses, round face, and a red polo shirt. Because we're in London, Asians are a rare sighting, kind of like giraffes in Antarctica. We hold each other's gazes longer than what's considered normal, thinking, no doubt, "Look – there's an Asian!"

I circle the premises for an empty seat, when none can be found, I loop back to his corner and reluctantly, settle into the sofa next to him. Generally speaking, I can tell if a guy will initiate contact just from the way he looks at me. Our eyes met for a moment too long, and there was too much curiosity in that gaze for him not to try to speak to me. I used to think, if a guy is too shy to make the first move, maybe I should make the move to help him out. The times I've done that, since high school, things didn't go anywhere/end well/or all of the above. So now I don't think that way anymore. If he's too chicken to talk to me, then I don't want to know him. I open my notebook, pretending not to be paying attention to everything that's happening in the other sofa, when I hear:

"Excuse me, do you have a pen I can borrow? I'm trying to do a crossword puzzle but I don't have a pen."

Privately, I smile. There's an original pick-up line I haven't heard. And is that a Canadian accent I hear? A Chinese-Canadian accent in London?!

Shyly, I reply, "Sorry, I just have the one pen. I literarily just cleared out my bag before coming here today." Thinking this might sound like a rejection, I add, "But you can ask the barista, they must have pens!"

Hearing the familiar accent he beams, "Are you American?"

And that's how we start talking. Turns out, Louie (that's his name) is Japanese. Grew up in Texas. Worked for ten years in Japan and just finished his MBA in the UK, is now working in sustainability for a big beverage company. All very interesting stuff...

We cut our conversation short for fear of disturbing other writers and resume to our respective tasks. Him with his crossword puzzle and me with my writing.

An hour or so later, the organizer comes over to invite me to the second half of the meetup, at this beautiful local restaurant/pub where we get a gorgeous sunroom all to ourselves and where beer and bookish blabber are served at all hours. I find myself looking to Louie (now would be the time to ask for my number or my email address) and when he just stands there, I extend the invitation to him to come along. And he does!

So we all go to the restaurant/pub, and we sit around a big white table, where the writers talk about writing and Louie talks about books. Everyone is politely bewildered and silently wondering what this non-writer doing at a writers' meetup. I thought he would stay for a drink ceremoniously, ask for my number, and duck out to carry on with his day. But no. All the way until I had to run out to meet a friend for dinner, Louie the non-writer remained stationed at his corner of the table, engaged in conversation. So in the end, we didn't exchange anything but a goodbye.

I walk out of there rather confused. Wait, wasn't the pen-borrowing just an excuse to talk to me? But we didn't really get to talk, not at the café or the pub, and he doesn't even have my email address. Maybe I misread the whole thing. Maybe all he really wanted, was just a pen?