Bed of Roses

Chapter 2

Your arms were filled with shopping bags as you made your way through Kensington Market. You've been living in London for almost five months now, and after a lonely Christmas night and a drunken New Years Eve (nothing like welcoming 1972 by being hungover), you decided you'd look more like a local young person.

And after asking a few of your colleagues, you found out that Kensington Market was the spot in London that catered to the bohemians and the hippies, to all the cool 70s kids. You didn't really felt like the people that you talked to were your friends, but it was better than having no one to talk. You missed the feeling of bonding with someone. But you were figuring out that you are, in fact, a bit of a loner, so here you were, in the excruciatingly cold January, shopping alone.

You always considered yourself a bit on the fashionable side - I mean, you're from New York. But the things people wore in London were never seen before by you. They were much more hippie-ish, less concerned about brands and fashion trends. You felt like they barely looked at the mirror after putting on a slightly androgynous outfit, the statement being "hey, I look really cool anyway". You crave that confidence. Maybe that's the true reason for you to be shopping here.

And you definitely found some interesting pieces of clothing - a lot of silky robes, some colorful mini skirts, vinyl boots. You were excited to wear these things, nothing like your casual, minimalistic approach to fashion.

A man with blonde, long hair ran into your shoulder, and took you out of your daydreaming about clothes. The man looked back and said "Sorry" before walking away, and you started to look around for more stalls with interesting clothes. That was a bit of a deja vu, but sadly, this was not the drummer who bumped into your shoulder after making a long lasting impression. These man's eyes were brown, and he had very small lips. Not like your aggressive yet angelical drummer.

Roger. You didn't understand why, but even five months after the only time you saw him, you still caught yourself thinking about him quite oftenly. He never even said a word to you, but that didn't stop you from thinking about his baby blue eyes looking into yours from behind the drums, or the way his bare chest peeped from under his half unbuttoned shirt.

He didn't look like a nice guy - but maybe you were tired of guys that just looked nice. You were tired of their quiet small talk and drunken conversations, trying to brag and impress you when there's nothing really extraordinary about what they're saying. They didn't live their lives with passion, and it shows. You had a lot of issues, but at least you were passionate about things - hell, you moved to another country to study something you love. Anyway, you were still young. You weren't looking for the father of your children - at least, not yet. If there was a time in your life for liking guys that were not nice, this was it.

You kept an eye out for more Smile concerts, but they were gone. No show announcements on the cork bulletin boards throughout the campus, where most student bands would put flyers with their show dates. But you felt silly looking for him. And you felt even more silly when flashes of him would surprise you - it was especially embarrassing when you caught yourself thinking about his round, full lips frowning while going out with other men.

It was easier not to think of him when your time was consumed by going out with your colleagues or even school work, but sometimes he just showed up in your mind. So, in your free time, you looked for him, and even allowed yourself to really think about him when you were frustrated with the guys you were seeing. Once, after a guy you just met started talking about taking you to meet his family, you went home and opened the phone book, and was completely frustrated with how many Rogers there were. You didn't even knew his last name. Calling every Roger in London would be stalker behaviour, and that was definitely something you were not.

You thought about the day you were at the library trying to finish a paper, and decided you needed some distraction. In the unorganized pile of books that was closer to your table, left there by some other student, there was a book of name meanings. You didn't even think about checking yours. You opened the book and looked for Roger, the frustration in your poorly written paper - you were not inspired that morning - making you want to feel distracted by the memory of him, as if knowing the meaning of his name would make you closer to him again, the boy you don't even know the last name.

"Famous with the spear". That's what Roger meant. Spear. You felt like you were reaching, but you thought about how drumsticks look like small spears, and he was definitely destined to fame. You needed no more evidence for that statement but the way he kept creeping around your mind months after you saw him, especially in moments of frustration and vulnerability. You knew that only someone who was destined for bigger things could cause such an impact. He was magnetic.

And there was something else you avoided thinking about when you were frustrated, because it would only frustrate you even more. He was clearly not interested in you. He ignored you. Even if you saw him again, you wouldn't really do anything about it. You were pathetic, yes, but you wanted to keep your dignity. Most of the time.

The sight of an exquisite fur coat took you out of your daydreaming. It was sitting on a chair on a small stall, but it would look great on you, the caramel color would make your skin glow. So you entered the stall and was met with baby blue eyes.

As if conjured by your incessant mental dialogue, he was there. Roger. It was his stall, apparently, and he was coming towards you. You tried to hide your shock, but you were caught off guard. He was even prettier than you remembered, his relaxed posture and open button up made him look like the most confident man you've seen.

"Hey, how can I help you?", he said, before actually taking a look at you. His face clicked - as if he recognized you. "Oh, shit. You were in our last Smile gig, right? I'm so sorry for bumping into you. Do you want something to drink? I've felt guilty for bumping into a pretty girl and not apologizing for months", he said, with the same smirk he gave you from behind the drums.

You were trying not to look stupid, so you quickly said "Hey, it's alright. I'll accept something to drink right after you sell me that coat", a smile on your lips. He smelled different from all the other guys you went out with - something natural, but still masculine, maybe patchouli, with the smell of cigarette smoke also around him. It was a bit intoxicating, or maybe it was the fact that he was standing so close to you, not the least bit annoyed - he seemed interested, actually. He looked at your body, checking you out discreetly. You could feel the heat coming from his body. His presence was distracting, it almost felt like your body was buzzing in response to it.

Maybe you could actually talk to him. You were thinking about him for months - feeling pathetic that you couldn't forget about a guy who never even spoke to you - but he was here now, and his raspy voice was talking to you, apologizing for not giving you attention the first time you met, saying that you're pretty. You would feel less pathetic if he kept haunting your thoughts now. At least now there's more material for you to daydream about.

And you were never really one to believe in the power of belief itself; you know, that story that maybe if you think hard enough about something, if you wish it happens from the bottom of your heart, it will happen eventually. But when Roger said "Sure, what's your name?" with a big smile on him - and he looked even better when he smiled - you thought you could become a believer.