Emmy

NOTE: This was technically written before "Hate Fucking Emmy", but I've reworked it as a prequel. You do not need to have read HFE to enjoy this. Thank you :)

***

I notice her across the crowded café. She's reading the same book I am--Jeff VanderMeer's Annihilation--and sipping a frothy cappuccino. She's seems lost in its pages, biting her bottom lip as her dark eyes move from side to side, taking in the words of the sci-fi story. I look away, not wanting her to notice me staring, and try to read myself. But I can't... I feel drawn towards her. Why? I see loads of pretty girls every day and I don't make a move on them. That's just not me. I'm way too awkward to strike up a conversation with a random girl, no matter how attractive I find her.

So why I have stood up? Why am I making my way through the café towards her? Oh, fuck what am I doing? Oh god, why am I standing next to her?

Well, say something then, you fucking idiot.

I try, but nothing comes out. The demon that is anxiety has its hands around my neck, the cold, skeletal fingers constricting my throat and stopping any words from forming. My mouth feels like sandpaper. Can't feel my legs. I think my heart might actually explode.

Okay, she hasn't noticed me yet. I'll just turn around and go back to my seat and hope no one in the café is wondering why that strange guy just got up, walked across the room, then turned and walked back again. Wait, maybe I could pretend to look out the window, make it look as if I got up to look at something outside.

'Uh... hey?' She looks up at me, a puzzled look on her face.

Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit. Say something. Now. Say it. I'm just staring at her.

'...Hey...' I croak.

'Can I help you?' She smiles politely but is quite obviously confused.

'No... I'm... uh... sorry.' I'm an idiot. This is the type of shit I have nightmares about. I'm literally never gonna forget this. I'll be replaying this over and over again in my mind. I'll lie in bed tonight, thinking what a stupid fucking fool you made of yourself. I'll remember this for the rest of my life--just like that time I fell over on the bus and pretended that I'd hurt myself instead of just getting up walking away. I force my legs to move and turn around.

'Where you up to?' she asks.

I turn back, awkwardly say 'W-what?'

She points at the copy of Annihilation that I have tucked under my arm, then gestures to her copy. 'Where you up to?' She asks again and smiles sweetly.

'Oh... oh, the book!' I laugh nervously, 'About halfway. What about you?'

'Same. I enjoyed the film and thought I'd give the book a go.'

'I never got around to seeing it.' I say, 'I'll give it a watch when I'm finished.' And like that, my mind goes blank. The channel has changed and now it's just static and white noise.

Luckily, she speaks, 'Wanna sit and read together?'

'What?' I say, 'Like, here. With you?'

'Yeah. Why not? I could use the company,' she giggles, 'unless, you're with someone?'

'No... no. On my own.'

'Then sit your butt down. Us loners have got to stick together.'

'Yeah, I guess we do.' I say, suddenly feeling at ease, and sit down across from her.

We smile at each other and open our books. She begins to read, but I only pretend to. I keep glancing up from the page to look at her.

The word beautiful would be an understatement. She's a redhead--which happens to be my type--and has messy bangs that sit over a dimpled, pixie-like face. Her eyes, as mentioned before, are dark and big, but still with an air of youthful innocence to them. She turns a page, and the sleeve of her baggy cardigan rides up, and I see that she has a tattoo on her right arm. I can't make it out, but it looks like roses or some other sort of flower. I wonder if she has tattoos anywhere else on her body.

She looks up from the book and I quickly look down. Did she notice me checking her out? I've fucked it. She probably thinks I'm a creep. I let a moment pass, acting as if I'm engrossed in the book, then cautiously glance up. She's reading again but smiling to herself.

'So, what's your name?' she asks, not looking up.

'Grey.'

'Hmm, you don't look like a Grey.'

'What do I look like?' I ask, intrigued.

'I dunno,' she says, 'An Edward maybe. Or a William. Or Harry.'

'They're all pretty... royal names,' I smirk. 'What about you?'

'Guess.' She says, flashing a mischievous look.

'Hanna.'

'Way off.'

'Rachel.'

'Hmm,' I say, 'Florence?'

'Here. I'll help,' she says, 'it begins with an "e"'

'Erin.'

'Wrong,' she says, grinning. 'Once life left. Make it count.'

'Er, Eileen?'

'Yeah, right!' She laughs, 'Do I look like a fifty-five-year-old housewife?

'No. You definitely don't.'

'Emmy,' she says, 'my name is Emmy.'

I chuckle, 'Well, it's very nice to meet you, Emmy.'

'And it's very nice to meet you too, Grey. What do you do? Are you a student at the uni?' she asks.

'I was. I graduated last year.'

'What did you study?'

'English Literature, which as you can imagine has opened so many job opportunities.' I say sarcastically, 'Are you a student?'

'Yep,' she says, closing the book, 'Art History.'

'How are you finding it?'

'It's been fine so far--the work that is. Everything else has been... chaotic.' She smiles again, but I catch a flash of sadness in her eyes.

'How so?' I ask.

'I miss home. And my family. I know they're not that far away, like I could literally get on a train and visit them in less than two hours, but still... it feels weird being on my own.'

'I understand,' I say, 'I felt the same way. One day I was just a normal kid at home and then next I was in a strange city with no friends or family. I guess that independence takes a while to get used to. When I first moved into my student flat I didn't even though how to switch the boiler on. Or how to use the oven. And one time the lights went out and I had to go out to the fuse box and I nearly electrocuted myself.' I suddenly feel as if I'm rambling so I stop.

'Yeah, same,' she says, 'honestly, I don't know how I've survived this long. If not for microwavable noodles I would've starved months ago.'

We both laugh. After a moment of silence, I begin to say something, but she speaks first, 'Would you like my number?'

'What--I mean yes--Yeah, sure.' I say.

She takes out a pen and scribbles on a napkin. 'Here you go,' she says and slides it over. 'I've got to dash. I promised my flatmate that'd I'd help her prepare for an essay.' She stands up and leans down to pick up her bag. I force myself to look away so she doesn't see me checking her out. 'Nice to meet you, Grey.' She walks past me and I catch the scent of her perfume. It's sweet and floral and fills my nostrils.

'You too, Emmy.' I say and she leaves the café. I watch her through the window. It's begun to rain, and she opens an umbrella and crosses the street, then disappears around a corner.

I look at the napkin. Her number is written in neat prose, and underneath she has doodled a cartoon smiley face and underneath that is a message: Call me.

****

It's been two days since I met Emmy at the café. I'm stood near a bus stop and it's raining heavily. I decide to call her. My heart is beating fast--feels like someone is dribbling it like a basketball. The phone rings out in my ear. I'm worried she's not gonna pick up, or even worse: she gave me a fake number. Come on. Come on. It seems to be ringing out forever--until I hear a click.

'Hello?' she says.

'Er, hey, Emmy. It's Grey. From the café.' I say, trying my darndest to hide my nervousness.

'I was wondering if you'd ever call.'

'Sorry. I should've called sooner... but I've been swamped with work.'

'It's fine, don't worry about it.'

'So,' I say, wiping my brow, 'There's a new modern art exhibition on at City Museum. Apparently, it's all about the human form... I was gonna go tonight. And I was wondering if you'd like to come with me.'

A moment of excruciating silence. I hope to God she's not thinking of an excuse to not come. And if she is, I just hope she tells me it straight instead of trying to spare my feelings.

'Yeah, okay. That sound's nice.' Emmy says, 'I'll meet you there. What time?'

'Seven-thirty okay with you?'

'Yep, sounds great. I'll bring my camera.'

'You're into photography?' I ask.

'Not professionally or anything, but yeah.'

'You'll have to show me sometime.'

'Hmm,' she says, 'maybe I will. We'll have to see how this date goes.'

'Oh,' I chuckle, 'it's a date, is it?'

'Oh, shut up.' She laughs, 'see you at seven-thirty.'

She hangs up. The anxiety has lessened slightly, and my chest no longer feels so tight. As my bus stops in front of me and I step on board, a wave of relief washes over me. This feeling of euphoria stays with me as the bus takes me home. I slip on my headphones and shuffle my playlist, and hear the opening chords of Find The River by R.E.M. I watch the buildings of the city roll on by as Michael Stipe sings, Watch the road and memorize/ The life that passed before my eyes/And nothing is going my way.

****

I'm stood on the steps that lead up to the museum. It's a modern building, all angular and pointed and painted matte black. My watch reads seven twenty-five. I've tried to put some effort into my appearance--not too much, as I don't want to look as if I'm trying too hard. I've trimmed my beard and put on a Levi's denim jacket over a grey shirt, and I've worn black jeans, as not to clash with the blue denim of the jacket. I also opened a bottle of cologne that I'd been gifted last Christmas, I don't know if it's any good, but it smells nice and the bottle is in the shape of a roaring lion.

The museum seems rather empty. Not many people coming in or out. This pleases me, as I'm not too fond of crowds--especially when I'm on a date.

'Hey there.' A voice says.

I turn and see Emmy walking up the stairs towards me. She's even cuter than she was in the café. She's wearing a band t-shirt, and as she nears I see it's the album cover for My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade. It's a few inches short of her waistline, showing off a smooth pale midriff. The slim stomach isn't the only skin she's showing off, however. She's also wearing a short red plaid skirt and black knee-high socks, which gives me a good five inches of thigh to gawk at. I can now see that her arm tattoo are roses, and they stop at her forearm. Around her neck is a camera. She holds it up to her face and says, 'Smile!'

A white flash blinds for a moment, and by the time my vision has returned Emmy is standing next to me. I notice that at six-foot-two I'm quite a bit taller than her. 'How did I look?' I joke, 'Like Ryan Gosling?'

'Of course,' she chuckles, 'c'mon, let's get a selfie.' She places her slim arm around my waist, I place my hand on her shoulder, noticing she's wearing the same floral perfume as in the cafe. She holds the camera backwards and we both smile. Another flash.

We follow the signs in the museum to the modern art exhibition, which is titled SKIN ON SKIN: WHISPERS OF THE HUMAN FORM, BY ALDRICH KLAUS. We enter a large space full of red, velvety curtains hanging from the ceiling. Sculptures are lined up against the curtains, and bright spotlights are silhouetting their shadow against the red fabric. Instantly, I'm surprised by how erotic the sculptures are. The first one we view has two faceless, androgynous figures, entwined on a bed of plush cushions. I look at it, confused, while Emmy snaps a photograph.

The second sculpture is again two sexless figures. One of them is on all fours and the other is behind them, hands gripping the other's waist. 'Hmm, that's... interesting.' I say.

'Yeah, very.' Emmy smirks and takes another photo.

We carry on. Each sculpture seems cruder than the last, and Emmy takes pictures of them all. I watch her hold the camera up to her face and close one eye, making the dimples on her cheek pop. I try to stop myself, but I can't help but imagine me and her re-enacting the acts these faceless sculptures are engaging in--suddenly I feel very hot.

The final sculpture is the most suggestive. At least a dozen figures are participating in a still frame orgy. Every sex act imaginable is being portrayed by these clay figures.

'This one is certainly something.' I say, 'What do you think it means?'

'Haven't a clue,' Emmy takes a photo, 'I mean, it's obviously saying something about sexuality... but I can't say what it is.'

'They've got no faces, so maybe it's something about sexual identity... or lack of sexual identity.' I say, 'But is it pro-sex, as in we should all be banging each other, or anti-sex, as in our culture see's people as sex objects?'

Emmy doesn't reply. I notice that she's staring at me, smiling.

'Er, what?' I ask.

'You're adorable.' She says.

'Thank you,' I say, 'Why?'

'The way you say "banging" instead of "fucking"--I dunno, everyone else would say fucking, but you say "banging".'

'Would you prefer if I said "fucking"?'

'Nah, like I said, it's adorable.'

'I'll take it,' I say, 'adorable is better than nothing.'

I check my watch. It's nearly eight. We spend another fifteen minutes looking at the sculptures, then decide we've had enough of the exhibition and leave. While most of the museum is closing up, the café is open for another half-hour. We sit down at a table near the window. Emmy orders a cappuccino and I order a flat white and we split a piece of chocolate cake. Despite it costing only being ten pounds, Emmy insists on splitting.

'I've got it. Don't worry about it.' I say.

'But you paid for the tickets to get us into the museum.'

'Yes. But you're a poor, cash-starved student. It's fine. Really.'

The chocolate cake is stale, but we still eat it, and luckily the coffees are good. We sit and drink in silence, watching the passers-by outside the window. An old man shuffles past holding a lead attached to an even older looking Border Terrier.

'Aww,' Emmy says, 'That dog's cute.'

'Yeah.' I say, smiling at how her face lit up at the sight of the dog.

'By the way, you never told me where you work?'

'You never asked.' I say, 'I work at the library.'

'You're a librarian?'

'No. A library assistant. It's mostly just admin work.'

She sips her cappuccino, getting frothy milk on her upper lip. 'Do you enjoy it?'

'It's okay, I guess. Pretty boring. But I can borrow any book I want for free, so that's pretty awesome.'

'I may have to take advantage of that,' she says, 'books cost a fortune when you're---how did you put it--a cash-starved student.'

'Only the first date and already taking advantage of me,' I say.

'I'll make it up to you,' she says, winking playfully.

I smile, look out the window, trying to hide the blush in my cheeks. 'What about you,' I say, 'you got any job plans for when you graduate?'

'Hmm, I'd like to work in a museum. Not one like this, of course--this place is far too pretentious for me. But a proper museum, with ancient artefacts and classical paintings. Somewhere my degree will actually be put to good use. And I'd like to travel. South America maybe?'

'Me too.' I say, 'I'd love to just lay on a beach somewhere and write.'

'You write? Like books?'

'I'd like to, someday.

'What's stopping you?' she asks.

I open my mouth, ready to tell a lie--but stop. I tell her the truth. 'Because... I'm too nervous to let anyone read my work.'

Emmy doesn't speak for a moment. 'I understand. I remember hearing somewhere that writers put a bit of themselves into their work. It can be very personal, and it can be hard to let people see that side of you.' Another moment, Emmy sips the cappuccino. 'But, you know if you ever did want someone to read your work... I'd love to.'

'Maybe,' I say, 'I could send you something--'

'Or' she interrupts, 'I can read it tonight. At your place.'

'I...' I stumble over myself, not able to register what she's just said. I shake my head, refocus, and say, 'That sounds like a great idea.'

Outside the museum it's raining, thunder roaring in the distance. We hurry to the bus stop and board a bus that's empty apart from the driver. We sit at the back and share my earphones. I let Emmy control my playlist and she chooses Silk by Wolf Alice. We turn the volume up full, the song blaring--Just looking for a protector/God never reached out in time/There's love that is a saviour/But that ain't no love of mine--and Emmy takes my hand in hers and rests her head on my shoulder.

****

My flat is on the second floor of an old red brick building. I think it used to be a textile mill or something but was converted to flats in the 1970s. The rent isn't cheap--I'm usually struggling at the end of the month, but I think it's worth it, as the flat's a nice size and has a lovely view of the park.

'Make yourself at home,' I say. 'Would you like a drink? Beer? Cider?'

'Yeah, go on then, I'll take a beer.' Emmy says, examining my bookcase that's next to the TV.

I open the fridge and grab two Coronas and crack them open using the edge of the counter. Emmy's now looking through my Blu-ray collection. 'Here,' I say, and hand her the beer.

'Thanks,' she says.

'Want a glass?'

'Nah it's fine,' she says and takes a long pull on the beer. 'Your apartment is lovely... kinda makes my student flat look like a slum.' She peaks into my bedroom, sees my desk with my laptop. 'Is this where you write?'

'Yeah,' I say, following her in, 'Shit, sorry. I would've made the bed if I'd known...'

She laughs, 'Don't worry about it--I can't remember the last time my bed was made. Christ, how many books do you have?' She gazes up in awe at another bookcase which is filled to the brim with books. 'Is that a copy of The Stand?'

'Yep. You're a fan of Stephen King?'

'Yeah. I mean, I usually hate horror and gore, but I love his books. 'Salem's Lot is a personal favourite.' She reaches up on tiptoes and takes down The Stand--a ridiculously long book.

'Have you read it?' I ask.

'I've been meaning to... but look how big it is. I'm not a fast reader, it would take me at least a year. I wonder how long it took King to write?'

'Too long, I bet.' I take another drink, 'That's why I try only to write short stories.'

'So,' she smiles slyly, 'can I read some?'

'Well, seeing as you've asked so politely.' I switch on my laptop and find a relatively short story I wrote a few months back. It's only seven thousand words and desperately needs to be edited down and cleaned up--but I'm still happy with it. I sit Emmy down in the chair. 'Read away,' I say. 'I'm gonna go get another drink. I need to be drunk for this.'

'Oh, don't be like that. I'll be nice.'

'You better be--my heart won't be able to take any harsh criticism.'

She chuckles and begins to read. In the kitchen, I crack open another beer and gulp down half of it, wipe my mouth. 'Would you like anything, Emmy?' I shout.

'No, I'm fine. Thank you, though.'

Back in the bedroom I lie down, watching Emmy. Her skirt has been pushed up by the chair and I see more of her soft legs. Another inch or so and I'd be able to see her underwear. A sudden heat sweeps over me, and I feel a movement in my trousers. A driving rain batters the window, and bright, flashes of lighting crackle in the night sky.

Twenty minutes pass. Emmy turns in the chair and looks at me, a sweet smile on her face. 'You're a really good writer, Grey.'

'I'm okay.' I say.

She stands up, and then lies down face to face next to me. 'No, really, I mean it. Why haven't you sent that to a publisher?'

'I dunno--guess I'm worried that it'll be rejected.'

'You never know if you don't send it,' she smiles. I feel her warm breath on my face as she shuffles closer. 'You gotta take risks, or you'll never know.'

Suddenly, there's a burst of lighting and the loud boom of thunder. Emmy jumps, and I place my hand on her hip, almost instinctively.