The Sonnet

It was about six years ago when I met her for the first time, being a late addition to the Dutch teaching course I was taking when I was 18. Fresh out of high school, thinking I know everything there is to know in the world and being willingly (and stupid enough) to take the two-hour train trip each day to get to classes. I had an immediate dislike for her, maybe it was the fact that she always spoke up in class, critiquing the ideas of the teacher, wanting more information than was necessary on any given subject and to top it all off actually wanting to get something out of these classes instead of hoovering up college credits and skyrocketing off to a working life as soon as possible.

She was smarter than me, and I hated her for it, but to have a stubborn 18-year old-me admit to that would be as easy as convincing a toddler to invest into a retirement fund. You could try, sure, but your energy would be better spent elsewhere. We clashed at every point in every forced-upon-us group assignment. Was I in favor of A? You could bet your ass she'd be firmly in camp B. Would I be jumping for joy at the thought of B? She would've already started painting banners to feverishly support A. On the surface we were civil, but under our skins the blood was boiling and every single interaction rose the temperature of our tension. It also didn't help that she was absolutely gorgeous. Standing at a good 6'0, long, wavy deep-red hair framing her face and dazzling green eyes that even in the fiercest disagreements looked beautiful, she was a sight to behold. She worked out, and despite her outfits hiding her assets for most of the time, on the few days that the sun did properly shine, she didn't mind showing off an ample amount of cleavage or her taut, well-trained belly. But alas, I fooled myself into being a principled man and therefore I shan't sleep with women whom I disagree with, or something like that. I still find it mind boggling how incredibly, incredibly dumb 18-year old me was.

The only thing we could agree upon was that we were both the best writers of our year by far. I admired and appreciated the rawness and honesty of her stories and she admitted to liking the page long poems I produced in the creative writing class. Maybe it was a combination of undiagnosed ASD, a fresh heaping of gifted child-syndrome and a very brief (and in retrospect- mildly embarrassing) period of thinking that The Catcher In The Rye was the greatest thing ever and consequently building my entire personality around it, but my work was enjoyed by some classmates and the creative writing teachers, who both encouraged her and me to pursue writing beyond these classes.

Yet that mutual admiration couldn't prevent us from reaching a boiling point. In one of the last assignments of the year, in which we as a class were tasked to write and perform a play. I was set to write, she was set to direct. In overlong production meetings we clashed over every single line, every single characterization and every single plot element. By the time we were on the train ride home we were both too tired to even argue anymore and would just quietly sit somewhere in each other's vicinity. She with her large, branded headphones on and me diving into a Russian literary classic that I dredged up from the library and didn't understand at all, but being to stubborn to put the massive tome down.

In the final week of rehearsals, where scenes were still being added and rewritten on the fly, the bomb burst. Maybe it was her ever changing mind that forced me to do so many rewrites that comparatively the DCEU could be considered coherent, or maybe it was my stubbornness that made me treat my own scenes like they were Biblical, unchanging and everlasting, but at one point, in front of a rehearsal room filled with a bunch of shocked, yet mildly amused student, we ended up yelling resentments at each other. I called her controlling, self-centered and pedantic. She called me pretentious, infuriatingly childish and impossible to work with. We threw notes and pages of script at each other and stormed out of the room. Two hours later we had a tough conversation with the teacher overseeing the project. Fifteen minutes later we were both kicked off of the project. We never spoke to each other again, avoided each other when possible and as the year progressed we saw less and less of each other, especially since both of us wanted to move on to greener pastures, not liking the way Dutch was taught in the country and dreading the though of being stuck for another three years with the most horrible person alive.

Years later, after taking some time to work and figure out what I wanted, I moved across the country and decided that since I everyone will throw their life away eventually (I might've still been dealing with some leftover edginess from my Catcher in the Rye Days), I might as well get an early start, causing me to enroll in philosophy. Although I have to admit that my major was hardly my focus. I moved to a university city after all, filled to the brim with music venues, college girls as far as the I can see and more coffee shops and bars than one could shake a stick at.

After maybe six months of classes on ethics, formal logic, whatever-the-fuck Heidegger is supposed to be saying and some wild ancient Greek philosophy, I decided to dedicate most of my time to my writing career. Being in a large city has its perks, and a vibrant literary community was one of them. I signed up for the literary student society, started performing my work at open mics in bars and other venues and for all intents and purposes I did really well. I won some small, local awards, bluffed my way through some slam championships and got the attention of the cities' leading literary organization, who were willing to offer me extra schooling and opportunities to professionalize and further my career.

I was doing well, and by the time my second year of philosophy(-ish, I decided to take it slow) rolled around, I got my first big project. I was to be paired up with another writer, another young talent from the city, in order to produce a performance for a large literary festival, a place where actual writers and actual publishers would be in the audience, as opposed to your friendly neighborhood local newspaper-poetry-critic, one-and-a-half homeless guy and maybe one or two wildly lost German tourists, depending on the weather. They said they had their eyes on some candidates for the program, but without knowing who I'd be partnering up with, I said yes, signed some paperwork and figured that it would only be sunshine and rainbows from now on.

On a day in the early fall I was heading out for the first project meeting, apart from a last-minute notice that our playwriting coach would be a bit delayed, the day seemed to be going well. I never minded going to the library, where the literary organization had its offices. It was not the most beautiful building in the city, mind you. The heart of the city was filled with 400 year old university faculties, a towering church from the late middle ages and proudly postmodernist museums, so a vaguely modernistic, mostly concrete, somewhat glass-built U-shaped shape in the middle of the city stood out for the wrong reasons. The replacement of the library was already being built, so the municipality was not to keen on maintaining its already existing structures. Still the place held a charm for me, maybe it was because I had grown quite fond of this city, but I never minded getting lost in the mildly unorganized floors, nooks and crannies looking for a new book to devour or just hanging out with the city poet in the few office hours that he had. I let the attendant at the entrance know why I was here and after leading me past a book depository, several maintenance rooms, a kitchen, four staircases and a frankly Kafkaesque maze of hallways I ran into Martin, who ran the day to day operations. He greeted me, asked me if I wanted any coffee and told me to go to the mostly empty office two doors down from his, with it being converted into a rehearsal space for projects for a few years now. I asked him the usual (sugar and milk- sue me) and entered the office.

It took me a few seconds to realize who was in this room with me. She had her back turned to me at first, my eyes instinctively going towards a well-shaped ass, clad in tight, dark jeans. As my eyes took in the rest of her, she turned and our gazes met. Time froze for a few seconds as the both of us, mildly startled, were looking for any way out of this situation. I relented first: ''Sophie- Hey.'' I paused uncomfortably. ''Long time no see.'' I added, graciously adding a fresh heaping of awkwardness to an already socially delicious interaction.

''Fuck.'' She blurted out. ''Hey Frank.'' Her eyes darted towards the ground. Before either of us could destroy our moods even further, Martin walked in with two cups.

''Your coach is on his way, his train is a bit delayed. He should be here in an hour or so.'' He pushed his glasses back on his nose, briefly touching on the strange atmosphere. ''Have you met before?'' he asks, a friendly smile of genuine interest on his round face.

''Yes, I've heard of you.'' she says, quickly putting on a smile to defuse the tension somewhat. ''I'm Sophie, pleasure.'' she says, extending her hand and looking me in the eyes for the first time, a threatening fury hiding in those emerald greens that swore vengeance if I didn't play along. ''Frank, pleasure to meet you too.'' I replied, quickly shaking her hand before letting go. ''She only just moved to the city from Rotterdam, but she comes highly recommended and has an absolutely amazing resume.'' Martin continues. ''-and Frank here is our local talent, I bet he'd love to tell you about the city and the literary scene. Maybe he'll even give you a tour!'' His enthusiasm forced a small, brief and deeply fake smile on her face. ''We'll have to see.'' she replies in a friendly enough tone.

''Yeah, we'll see.'' Hiding my deep sense of discomfort under the same veneer of friendliness. A silence falls in the room as Martin hands us some pen and paper. ''This is the program for the festival, at least the bit that's been confirmed. Great news for you, you'll be the opening act!'' he adds as he joyfully claps his hands, and honestly, that idea got me at least somewhat excited. ''Well. I still have plenty of work to do, so I'll leave you two to it.

''Is there a place to smoke?'' Sophie asks as she reaches into her purse on the table, grabbing a pack of cigarettes.

''There is!'' Martin replies. There's rooftop access at the end of the hallway. It's technically not allowed, but the municipality doesn't really care anymore, and the view is great.''

''Good'' Sophie says quickly as she leaves the room, cigarette and lighter in hand.

''I'll go have a smoke with her.'' I say to Martin as I leave too, quietly following Sophie as she actively makes an effort to almost drop the door to the rooftop in my face.

She sits down at the small passageway between the top floor and the edge of the roof and I quietly join her, a few feet down. I grab a cigarette and light it, taking a slow drag as I look over to her, her foot impatiently tapping on the tiles that are laid on the roof.

''So. This is awkward.'' I say after a few seconds of silence, Sophie still actively avoiding your face.

''You think?'' She replies, short, angry.

''Well yeah- we didn't part on the best of terms and-''

''-and running into you, the guy who has already ruined my life once, right as I moved all the way across the fucking country to get a fresh start is pretty fucking awkward yeah.'' She interrupts. I look over and see that familiar anger on her face. On that beautiful, beautiful face.

''Ruined your life? I mean yeah- we had our disagreements but I'd hardly say that I ruined your life. Plus, it's not like you left me unscathed either.'' I answer. If poorly wording things would be a contest, I'd be in the lead right now.

She sighs. ''Look- I don't want to get into this-''

''But you started-''

''Don't interrupt me.'' She snaps back. ''I don't want to get into this. This is a good work opportunity. I'm not going to let that get away from me because of what happened. Neither will you, right?''

''I guess.''

''Good. So lets keep it civil from now on. A ceasefire. I hope that you're mature enough, that beard of yours shows some growth I guess.''

''Thank you.''

''That wasn't a compliment, you should shave.'' she states coldly.

''Ceasefire it is.'' I grumble as I get up, taking the last drag of my cigarette before I throw the butt in a long-abandoned coffee cup. Sophie tries to pass me on the narrow walkway, but a poorly placed tile causes her to trip, and in a reflex I catch her by her sides, preventing her from going headfirst into a puddle of rainwater. As I pull her back from the fall her ass briefly presses against my crotch and the few moments that I hold her are enough to catch a whiff of her perfume. Her soft, sweet scent, with light hints of vanilla and elderflower, entrances me briefly before being quickly snapped out of it as Sophie removes my hands from her side. ''Thanks for catching me.'' She mouths under her breath as she quickly leaves, her cheeks red with embarrassment, as I feel my cheeks being flush as well.

We spent the most of our remaining time on opposite sides of the room, scouring over our papers, jotting down notes and ideas to kill time until the coach arrived. The session went well enough, most of it being centered around getting to know each other and each other's' styles. She gave me a quick recap of what she'd been up to. She studied Russian, became University Poet, ran a local poetry venue for a few years, took a sabbatical and decided to move back over here, the city she was born and raised in. She did better than I did since we parted, and looked better doing it too. Where I just got longer hair and a beard, she seemed to have found a new confidence. A new confidence that was sure to make us working together a very long and arduous process. Eventually the coach roped us and Martin into going for a drink at one of the many classic brown pubs. After two beers Martin headed home, the coach stuck around for another two before heading back to the train station, so Sophie and I were left alone in the end, both of us with too much beer in our glass to walk away socially unscathed without coming up with an outlandish medical excuse. She twirled around her coaster mindlessly as I kept being drawn to her. I might not like her, but fuck she was stunning. As she transitioned into drawing a maze on the back of her coaster she licked her lips. My mind couldn't help but wonder how those lips would taste, how they would feel, how it would look to see them wrapped around my co-

''I'm sorry.''

I snap out of my train of thoughts.

''What?'' I reply, not comprehending what she just said.

A sigh. ''I'm sorry.'' she says again, not taking her eyes away from her labyrinthine art project.

''For what?'' I answer, more confused and curious than anything.

''I wasn't nice to you today.'' She puts down her pen and leans back, looking up at the decorated ceiling as she continues talking. ''I went home early after that fight we had in class. I had a fight with my boyfriend the night before, but after our well- classroom kerfuffle, I felt so miserable that I had to go see him.'' She falls silent for a bit. She looks at her maze as she takes a sip of her beer. ''I found him balls deep in some other girl when I got home, so that was not good.'' she says dryly.

''Fuck. I'm so sorry to hear that.'' I say, immediately feeling like a huge dick for behaving the way I did back then.

''I mean, we had a lot of fights. He wasn't good for me, plus he'd been -- well, preaching for different parishes for a year. So good riddance, I guess.'' She adds coldly. I cringe at the memories of how I behaved towards her those years ago, I almost feel a stone drop in my stomach as I feel immensely embarrassed. I sigh deeply.

''I was an absolute, irredeemable cunt to you, wasn't I?''

She chuckles. ''You were.''

''I feel really bad about it.'' I say as I lean on the table, not meeting her gaze yet. ''Honestly. You intimidated the fuck out of me. You were outclassing me at every turn. You are smarter and far more talented than I am and that scared the everliving fuck out of teenage me.'' I take a sip of my beer and meet her gaze. ''It's not an excuse, I know. But I want to really apologize for what I did.''

She smiles as she leans back.

''Thank you, that means a lot.'' She chuckles. ''Although that ending you wrote for that play, with your fiercely cringy self-insert ending up with the popular girl? That was some of the worst writing I ever did see.''

I chuckle as she bursts out laughing ''You're absolutely right about that, although the rap you wanted to add last minute also wasn't going to win you any awards.'' I reply.

''Don't you dare.'' she says playfully.

''G to the O and T-H-S, in wearing black we are the best'' I rap at her, at the worst of my ability.

''Please stop.'' She manages to say between fits of laughter. ''I worked so hard to repress that memory.'' She chortles after she takes another sip of her beer, we're both almost out. ''Honestly, me forcing that rap into the play was probably the bitchiest thing I did.'''

Something shifted, for the first time I felt like Sophie didn't physically want to ruin me. We were bringing up memories of classroom antics, that weird fucking teacher who was in a Rod Stewart-tribute band and the many, many deeply silly arguments that we had. At around midnight I paid the tab and we slowly sauntered our way to the library, were both of our bikes still were. We were definitely a bit drunk, sometimes bumping into each other, exchanging small gazes and in general just faffing about, when we pass a coffee shop. Not the regular kind, but the kind that sells weed, leading to an overall sense of confusion to any and all tourists who are never not entertained by marihuana-themed decorations.

''Dude.'' She says as she grabs my hand, causing us to stop. ''We should get high.''

''Yes.'' I say, holding onto her hand as I pull her into the coffee shop. A few minutes later we're outside with all the stuff we need, and with a small jetty on the side of the canal that runs through the city, we've quickly found a spot to continue our night. I light the joint up and after a healthy toke I pass it to her. We're leaned against the canal wall, the slow sound of gently moving water feeling soothing as a few lights on the houseboats further down provide an especially charming décor as we get lost in conversation again, inching ever closer together.

''Can I tell you a secret?'' she says, after passing the half-smoked joint back to me.

''Sure, go ahead. Mi case is su casa.'' I reply, fully confident.

''That doesn't make any sense, anyway. I wrote something about you, ages ago.''

I chuckle. ''I remember writing something about you.''

''I mean, I didn't like you.'' She continues. ''But you know, you were an interesting guy, so I wrote a short story about like- just a regular day in your life. Didn't do anything with it, but still.''

I smile as I remember what I wrote about her. ''I wrote a poem about you. Or well, about girls with red hair. But yeah, it was about you.''

''Will you show it to me?'' She asks, a mild, pleading tone in her voice.

''I will take that poem to my grave, no one will ever lay eyes upon it.''

''Because it was cringey?''

''It was so cringey. Honestly, it could be one of those fixed points in time. You could pinpoint it historically and conclude that from there on out, everything was just a little bit worse.''

''Dude, that sounds amazing! I want to read it even more now!'' She replies, playfully hitting me on my shoulder as she sits on her knees.