End Game

Man out of time

Timothy always felt he'd been born decades past his time. He'd been a teenage goth, of all things, a lifestyle that had its heyday long before his birth. You couldn't call it nostalgia, not in one so young, but there'd been something about the look that resonated.

That was a few years back now. Just a phase he's going through, his mother would assert whenever the subject came up. She'd been right about the clothes. He'd ditched the hairstyle too. All that was left now was the attitude. There was a darkness about Timothy – you could see it in his eyes if you cared to look. Part of the problem was that nobody did.

He was here to rectify that. Miraculously a girl had seen his profile and swiped right. They'd messaged, chatted. He'd invited, and she had said yes.

Timothy had given the subject some study and thought, had drawn on a past record of trial and error, reached a conclusion: the best way to catch and hook a soul mate was to pretend to be someone you are not. A positive attitude was the thing. He resolved to exude one, even if he had to squeeze it out through clenched teeth.

He'd purchased a bright shirt of red and white stripes especially for the occasion. Trying it on, his first impression was that it made him look like the member of a barbershop quartet. No problem with that, he told himself, such a dated cultural reference was bound to sail breezily over her head. Timothy in contrast was entirely hip with dated cultural references, something that was possibly part of his problem. He'd chosen a café with a definite foodie-hippy vibe, one with lots of pot plants around its perimeter, bulky wooden tables and chairs decorated in bright primary colors (so at least they would match his shirt). He'd even stood in front of a mirror and practiced how to smile.

He'd arrived first and chosen a table, sat down with the intention of mentally going over his getting-to-know-you lines. But his mind had other ideas – soon he was lost in a tangential daydream about doo-wop music (his tastes had evolved considerably over the years, dragging his optimal birth date further back in time as they did so).

Reality knocked. Timothy blinked and looked up. There she was, standing right in front of him. "Tim?"

His eyes widened. "Oh, hi. Min? You look just like your profile pic. Er, only more animated."

"You think I look like an anime character?"

"Um, no." This had not been in the script. "I mean, um ..." Recognizing that his words were taking him nowhere worth going, Timothy cut his losses. "Please, have a seat."

Min gave the scene an appraising look, taking in the bright check pattern of the table cloth and Tim's matching shirt. She smiled, causing Tim's heart to beat just a smidgeon faster.

He tried again. "Perhaps I meant you look bigger in real life."

Min, who might struggle to make five-five on her tiptoes, raised an eyebrow at this. "You saying I look like a midget on screen?" She sat down.

"Um, no..." Relentless positivity, Tim reminded himself. For the moment, nothing relentlessly positive occurred to him. "Here, have a menu," he said instead. "The food here is amazing." He might have smiled, too, but the mirror practice had warned him off that much at least.

If Min had in fact been an anime character, the artist would have sketched her mouth as a terse straight line. In reality the line formed by her lips tilted fractionally downward at its ends, making not a frown but, paradoxically, an expression of wistful good-humor. As if to say: I'm ready world, now entertain me.

As for the rest of her, it wasn't Min herself who was bigger in real life so much as it was her hair. Shoulder-length and black, it somehow puffed up in a way that shrunk her face in comparison, isolating and amplifying whatever expression it carried – currently the aforementioned look of hopeful amusement. Sixties girl group, whispered some corner of Tim's brain that he wisely ignored.

They had already exchanged basic life facts online, so initial conversation was somewhat tentative. Tim talked about a movie he'd seen and Min complemented him on his shirt.

"It makes you look like a butcher, though," she laughed. To Tim's blank look, she added. "All you need is one of those straw hats."

Despite having no idea what she was talking about, Tim decided he'd better play along. "Shh," he'd whispered, looking around, conspiratorial. "I think they're pretty militant about their vegetarianism in this place."

This earned him another smile.

*

They ordered and before long their food arrived. Min had chosen a quiche, what the menu had graciously offered as its sole 'carnivorian option'. She eyed it skeptically, a yellow triangle garnished with a cherry tomato; it managed to look tastefully arranged, something that was possibly down to the hugeness of the plate relative to the smallness of the serving. "I guess this place caters to people concerned about their weight."

"Quality over quantity," suggested Tim. He took a spoonful of his bean salad. Crunchy pea-sized sprouts in a fresh salsa. It was actually rather good with just the right amount of zing, perfect for a day like this. On the wall by the counter a dusty old air conditioner droned interminably away, doing its not-nearly-good-enough best to repel the heat of the summer's day outside. "This tastes great," he said, offering her his bowl, "you want to try some?"

She did. "Mmm, you're right." She offered some of her quiche in return and Tim was careful to take only the smallest morsel lest he diminish what little she had. "Not bad," he opined.

A silence fell as they ate. It didn't last long.

"So, Min. Have you ever heard of doo wop music?"

Min's reply never came, her attention caught instead by something behind Tim's back. Turning to look, he saw a man – a hat in one hand and a pair of sunglasses in the other, standing under the air conditioning vent as if bathing in its airs.

"You recognize that guy?" whispered Min.

Tim frowned. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. "Do I get a clue?" he asked.

"Reclusive billionaire. Famously went off-grid a few years back."

"Okay ..." Timothy furrowed his brow further, working his memory. "It does sort of look like him. What's his name – Melon Husk?"

"I think you'll find it's pronounced Meylon Hoosk."

Tim turned back to face the table, shifting his chair as he did so to keep the man in his peripheral vision. He noticed Min doing something with her phone. "You think it's really him? A billionaire recluse who just happens to buy his lunch at Zest?"

Min shrugged. "The evidence is staring you in the face."

Whether the reverse was true was unclear. The man had a distracted air about him, showing no signs of having noticed the attention he was attracting. This lasted until the arrival of the shopgirl at the counter. Husk, if that was who it was, snapped out of his reverie. Restoring hat and glasses, he turned to the display cases and chose a number of sandwiches which he proceeded to pay for at the till, receiving change from the girl.

Tim turned his attention back to Min – trying, with limited success, to banish a sense that he was exposing his back to an enemy. He read what he could of the mystery man's movements in the flickerings of her eyes.

"He's going," she hissed. "Let's follow him."

"Huh?"

"Come on. He's been unsighted for years. Sort of like a latter-day Elvis."

She gave Timothy an appraising look, but she needn't have worried. He knew exactly what she meant.

"Well, okay," he said, swallowing his last spoonful of salsa. Their meals were finished, so why not?