The District Line pt. 2

Disclaimer: This story is very much a work in progress. I am still creating the characters, and in doing so, I decided to start from their beginning. I love writing first encounter stories, there’s something so beautiful and easy about that initial spark.

11:14 p.m.

I’m a friendly guy. Not exactly in the golden-retriever kind of way, but in the help-the-elderly-woman-next-door-carry-in-her-groceries kind of way. I’m the kind of guy who’ll approach the lonely and uncomfortable at a party and small talk my way into their hearts. I love small talk, flirting and non-controversial political topics. Faye was the type of girl, who, at a party, would tell wild, unbelievable stories. With long, I swear to God, cascading blonde hair, she captured entire living rooms. She had the ease and slight messiness of your childhood babysitter but had the looks, fittingly, to kill. Comparable to a Disney princess; long legs, tiny waist, big, golden-hazel eyes rimmed by long lashes. But she had the kind of face that isn’t boring beautiful. You could say she was pretty, but you’d eat your words once you realized that was too simple. Undeniably beautiful, multi-faceted, absurdly charismatic. All synonymous with her name.

It was uncharacteristically hot in London that night, one of the five days in July that actually feel like summer. Faye was wearing an oversized, camp counselor looking, tie-dyed t-shirt and tiny leopard print shorts that looked like they were probably meant to be worn as underwear. I was in jeans and regretting it, the humid air making my clothing clingy. I had been brought to this particular party by a girl who worked at the cafe where I brought my laptop on Sundays. She was nice, albeit bland, with a tiny frame and giant boobs. This what’s-her-name had been gone for almost an hour, pulled in by a group of equally generic girls, leaving me to stand near a wall in a room full of strangers, and listen. Faye was standing in a circle of people, hearing the host, a small guy with a fake tan and a thick stereotype of a Texan accent, talk about his horses on the ranch back home. When a thirty-something started talking about her run in with the police after trying to sneak backstage at the Coldplay concert, Faye caught my attention from across the room and rolled her eyes slightly at me. I gave her a half smile and pushed off my wall, edging my way into her circle of people trying to one up each other with stories about their benign lives. I can’t remember what Faye’s story was about that night. She told a lot of stories, details changing but always getting the same reaction. Faye talked with her hands, her facial expressions and vocal undulations eliciting gasps and laughter. Awe and praise were her prizes this particular night.

She had gone to that first party with the host’s best mate, but she had left with me. She saw me grabbing my unnecessary coat, fed up with the waitress, and asked, “Which way you headed?”

“District line.”

“Sweet, I’ll come with,” she oozed confidence, then backtracked ever so slightly. “If that’s alright.”

It surprised me. I was used to being approached by girls at the end of a night, sure. But never girls like her. There are no other girls like her.


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