Charlie & Charles

Underwater London

For the next few days, the City had become one den of rain, wind and unpleasant cold. Carrie, my landlady, got used to saying "And so there's Autumn again, dear. I think we should compensate a lack of sun with some whisky," which would occasionally be followed by "Marmalade! Get off that cupboard for God's sake!" when she reprimanded her fat cat.

She may have been elderly, but in spirit, she was younger than anybody my age. I came to understanding that Carrie was actually way more outgoing than me - she played poker with retired businessmen every Wednesday, went out dancing on Fridays, and came home slightly wasted from her friends' place each Sunday (truth be told, those rendezvous were the only reason why old lady still was going to Church).

Putting all that aside, I loved her. Carrie was nothing like an ordinary grandma - in looks too. She had medium length black hair, without the tiniest bit of grey. Dark skin perfectly matched her beautiful, big, brownish eyes. But the most amazing thing about Carrie was that no matter the trouble you had gotten into, she was always there to give the best advice.

And so, when I came home the night I met Charles and told her about it, she gave me a doze of her wisdom by saying, "Start living, darling," but even following her words, nothing ever happened.

I was on a lookout for him on campus, but despite his insistence that we'd almost met there before, I never bumped into Charles. I went to the coffee shop, spend all my afternoons in Library (Old Marley gave me a pitying look each time) and walked back home the same way we used then. Even with that, he had simply disappeared.     

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Most people at University hadn't gone to a single class since showers hit London. Lectures were quite awkward and professors gave us way more homework than necessary.

I spent a lion's share of my classes either looking out of the window, silently praying for the rain to stop pouring or drawing shapeless creature on margins of the notes I pretended to be taking.

Going against my family and choosing English Language and Literature as my major was tremendously satisfying, even exciting so to speak, but as time passed I started to have second thoughts about it. Would this give me a steady income? Good job? Wasn't I simply wasting time sitting here?

For those questions, I liked to know the answer, yet it didn't come.

"Well, that's all for today people! You'd better be finishing The Tempest, we will be talking about it on Thursday!" Mr Linklater announced, sitting on his desk, "And for god's sake, don't forget those umbrellas!"

My classmates were lazily getting ready to face the storm outside, all of them clearly fed up with chilly weather and downpours. Luckily, that was the last class for most of us, and maybe if it wasn't for the fact that I was enormously tired I even would agree to go grab some drinks with them. Maybe I even would have some fun for once and make some more friends. But... How am I even trying to kid. That's simply not for me.

As a red-haired guy stood on Mr Linklater's desk and shouted invitations to the bar, I was packing my stuff clumsily and in the corner of my eye I saw him.

He was standing outside the lecture hall, leaning against the wall. His jacket was decently soaked, hair as if he had just taken a shower. Charles fixed them, then sported a huge smile and, waiting until I get myself together, he dried his glasses.

"Hiya," I began with a slight tone of self-consciousness, balancing heavy backpack and huge dotted umbrella.

"Looks like you could use some help," He half smiled and, ignoring my murmured refusal, took my backpack, "So... Literature, huh?"

"Yep," I smiled.

We headed towards the exit passing other students in raincoats and wellington boots. No sooner did we walked out of the building, cold air and raindrops hit my face. I opened the umbrella.

"That at least explains manuscript. I had a hypothesis you were a desperate science student, you know, studying lonely in a library at night and exchanging secret looks with the security guy," He looked at me briefly so as to check if I'm offended, but he lost my attention at "desperate".

"Have you... Have you read it?" I managed to mumble.

"The manuscript?"

"Aha."

"Shouldn't I?" He frowned.

I felt embarrassed. Immediately. My cheeks went red and suddenly chilly weather didn't matter.

"Definitely," I said quietly.

We stopped few buildings away, near the west gate of the premises, hiding under a huge tree.

Charles tried to look me in the eye, but my umbrella hid me excellently, "Charlie, don't be mad at me. What was I supposed to do with a whole pile of pages? Besides, it took some time to find you and I hoped for some more information inside..."

"...I'm not mad... I'm embarrassed - that's the difference, Charles," I mumbled slowly, cutting him off, "It is so private! I better say, it was so private... I've never let anyone read this disaster and I hoped it would stay that way."

I looked everywhere but at him, which believe me was not easy, if both of us wanted to stay in the water-free zone.

We stood in silence for a moment. Raindrops continued to fall, hitting leaves and puddles aggressively. Somewhere outside campus, a car honked.

Charles took off his glasses and cleaned water from the lenses as I asked quietly, "Why are you even here?"

At first, he was a bit confused, but then he let out a small sigh.

"Because I... Well, there are plenty of reasons, actually," He looked away, "But for now, I think the main one is that you should rethink your novel," He said slowly and before I could say anything he continued, "It is well written, that's for sure, but your story... Don't get me wrong, but it's unreal to me," Charles run his fingers through his already messed hair.

I stood there speechless as some stranger lambasted my hard work. Surely, I didn't think of my manuscript highly, but what does he know about writing anyway? About staying up late at night just to write few words that you don't even like next morning? And more importantly- why did he even care to come and tell me that straight in the face?

I sighed loudly, "Really? We don't know each other, but you feel free to criticise me? Like what, we're not even in Hyde Park!" I was almost shouting at the very end either because of the noise or rather because my resentment was taken over by anger. I let the umbrella fall to the ground, "So what should I write about then, master of literature?"

There was something in his eyes I couldn't recognise. Before I registered what he was doing, he whispered, "You could begin your book with this."

And he kissed me.

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His lips tasted like the mixture of strong dark coffee and mint gum, his face decorated with raindrops, freezing cold hands slowly touching my face.

Never have I felt like this before.

My body clung to his. Rain poured continuously, heavy drops making noise that suddenly turned into silence, as right at that moment, there were just the two of us.

His strength and confidence made me helpless. Delicate kisses got me bee's knees and I lost the perception of time and place.

And although he tried very hard to seem like he had himself under control, through his lips I could feel the desperate want for more than this.