Querencia

VIENNA

10:15 am
March, 2023

"Charlie Spring."

To conjure up my life till now, I have been bestowed on with three things from my parents:

First of all, there is my independence. My parents had been somewhere between half-hearted and completely absent for much of my childhood, and after several years of resentment in adolescence, I'd learned to reframe the experience in my mind. Now, I looked at it as a positive. From a very young age, I'd learned to take care of myself.

Secondly, there's my way with words. That, I have inherited from my father. My father, of course, is known by many people. He's a politician, one of quite high profile, and had been weaving words together since his first campaign trail. Rhetoric, persuasion, these are the things that I've learned from watching my father.

And third? Well, there are my looks. Those, I suppose, come from my mother. I'm tall, but not too tall, and what my friend Elle refers to as well-put-together, in the physical-sense. She says my features are classic, 'eyes dark but warm with a gleam that never seems to change no matter what the light.'

As I searched for the best possible impression to give on a cold Monday in Vienna that would change my life forever, I employed all three blessings.

I needed confidence to walk the road, whatever lane it might lead us down. I needed a way with words that could persuade an esteemed writer, to invite him into my life. And, well.

I was dressed as smartly as I could manage on a closet fresh out of college. My hair was styled, but in that not-meant-to-look-styled sort of way. Anyway, a writer should arrive at words first and image second. That didn't mean though, that I didn't want to make a good first impression.

"Well it's nice to meet you, Charlie," The writer smiled the words out. "I'm excited to explore this city with you. Maybe the universe will finally do me something good."

My courage failed me so drastically the moment my name came out of this fine man's mouth that I couldn't move my legs at all. For a moment I was entirely speechless. "Charlie?" He asked, immediately a little apprehensive when I'd not said anything. The writer's smile fell and it was replaced by an obvious sense of insecurity. His eyes full of aquamarine suddenly seemed large and worried, his brows knitting while his gaze travelled in front of him.

Quite unable to find my voice, I cleared my throat.

"Yes, I'm Charlie, I m-mean, pleased to meet y-you!" I announced in panic, but my voice came out like a high squeak. Flushing furiously, I cleared my throat once again and repeated, in a much lower voice: "I'm honoured to meet you, Mr Nelson."

Relief was obvious on his face. He didn't look at me although a small smile perched back in the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, I'm so glad, for a second I thought you were regretting your decision." He said as if that would have been the end of the world. "And just Nick would be fine."

Suddenly, the advantages bequeathed to me by my parents seemed weak.

This man was gifted with words, he was handsome, and I could not see how my independence would help me now.

A small shake of my head was all I could manage to do. My breath was stuck somewhere under my breastbone, tight like a ball squeezing my lungs apart.

I was certainly intimidated. But this was my chance at something promising graciously gifted to me by the Gods and I had to cease it. Twenty four hours seemed plenty and simultaneously not enough.

"I want to give a good first impression," I said blankly. Was it embarrassing to declare?

I was interrupted by the writer's soft laugh, and for a fraction of second, my heart stuttered.