Unknown

Work at the library was stressful this morning. The local primary school had a field trip and I had to reshelve all the books that were thrown out of their proper places after they were gone. I also had discovered that a copy of The Little Engine that Could had some pages missing. Oh. And I got fined for it. Thank goodness it was time for my lunch break. I needed a beer.
I caught a taxi and told the driver to go to The Victoria, my favorite pub. It was cold, and autumn was at it’s peak; the tree leaves along the London pavement were all changed, sporting dirty brown and apple red colors.
Once the cab stopped, I paid the driver and got out, lugging my bag over my shoulder as I started to walk towards the front door of the pub. The thought of some chips and cool drink made my mouth water.
But before I made it into the building, a cherry red color caught my eye. I looked over and discovered that it was hair.
The hair belonged to a man who was sitting at a table right next to where I was standing. He was sipping his drink and reading a newspaper like a model would, and his hair was styled up and obviously dyed that red color. It shouldn't have looked good on anyone, but it suited him. He had a black trench coat on with the collar pulled up around his neck which I assumed was to shield him from the brisk autumn chill. He made it look sexy.
He peered up at me and I got a look at his eyes. His baby blue eyes. Then I realized that he caught me staring at him and was giving me a look like, what are you doing, you sick pervert?!
Oh no.
I blinked and quickly looked down at the black wedges I was wearing. Then I sped walked under the ivy covered archway in front of the doors of The Victoria and slipped inside. I tugged at my ponytail in frustration. How could I have been so obvious? Society did not accept creepy staring! He must have thought I was mad! But when did I start caring what people think? Just because I happened upon a mildly attractive man?
I was very aware of how fast my heart was beating, but it slowed down as I started to take in my surroundings. The pub was moderately full; about ten or so people other than me were in there, all having happy conversations while nursing whatever form of alcohol they had chosen. The sweet, thick smells of wine and beer filled my senses. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, enjoying the moment of relaxation.
I opened my eyes again and made my way to the bar, glancing out the window to see if the man was still there. Surprisingly, he wasn't. All that was left of him was the newspaper sitting on the table, the wind teasing its edges.
I pushed him from my mind and sat down at the bar stool closest to the fireplace. A fire was on, blazing and crackling. The bartender made his way over to me to take my order.
“What can I get you, love?”
“An Oliver’s Island, please.” It was my favorite drink. It was citrusy and the taste of it reminded me of spring. Perfect if you're trying to escape a chilly autumn day.
The bartender winked and said, “Coming right up.” I smiled at him as he went to make my drink. Then I put my face in my hands and sighed, trying to cleanse myself of the frustrations of the day. Then I remembered that I was only on my lunch break and that I still had at least eight more hours of work left. I groaned into my hands.
“Hard day?” A gravelly voice said next to me.
I wasn't above talking to strangers, so I replied, my voice muffled by my hands, saying, “You have no Idea.”
“Then you're definitely in the right place.” He cheekily replied. I snorted.
“Yeah, I suppose you're right.” I started rubbing my eyes.
“So what exactly is stressing you out, if you don't mind me asking?”
An image of screaming primary school aged kids flashed in my mind. But I wasn't going to bore the friendly stranger sitting next to me with all of that rubbish. So I just said, “Work. You know, what normally stresses people out.”
I stopped rubbing my eyes and looked up at the stranger I was having a pleasant little chat with. But it was him. Him. Red hair and all. My eyes grew wide.
He gave me a cocky smirk; one that meant that he recognized me too and that I was making a fool of myself all over again. My cheeks felt hot and I found that I was at a loss for what to say.
The bartender came back with my drink. I reached for my wallet, not taking my eyes off of the redhead. But he pushed my arm back down and said, “It's on me.”

Notes

Brenna: :)

Celery: ;)