sophie.

Chapter 3

He was born in New York to Abram and Harriet Jane. Abram was a door-to-door entrepreneur in his younger days and Harriet committed herself to being a stay at home mom, which, when he told me this, I cringed. But I didn’t say anything, despite the fact that, to me, it was peculiar that women still subjected themselves to that sort of life. I originally thought that it was a thing of the past, but whatever. It wasn’t my right to ridicule. He told me that there wasn’t, honestly, much that was interesting about his younger years. He told me that he was in love with music and couldn’t live life without it. He said he was a die hard fan of Etta James, Judy Garland, Shirley Bassey, and a few others, but none more than Shirley Bassey herself, of whom he kept dearest to his heart.

“So you like that old stuff?” I asked with a smile. I should have noticed the subtle way he faltered, but didn’t.

“Um… yes, I suppose so.”

“So do you collect records?” I asked. I didn’t think I was being nosy.

“Well, not really, I just don’t have many CDs in comparison,” he respondedy thoughtfully, and I nodded in understanding. There was a comfortable lull in the conversation as we took a drink from our glasses.

“So tell me about you, Sophie,” he asked. I liked how he was so polite. Mind you, I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that we had entirely contrasting personalities. He was a sweetheart, an old soul, and I was, for lack of a better word, crass; a die-hard realist. I knew at the time why I liked him, yet I was completely unsure about what it was that he saw in me. But I was ogled by him, and I didn’t allow myself to be swayed by self-conscious thoughts.

“Well, I was born and raised here in this fantastic little town,” I said, dramatically waving my fingers and gesturing out the front window, to the city streets. “And I was raised by both my parents, but a lot of the time I feel like I'm more of a joint-account child than anything else. Does that make sense?” I looked over at him; previously, I was distracted by the aforementioned front window, and didn’t care to look back until I put in my query. But I saw him: he was actually interested. He was leaning forward a bit on the small table and looked as if he completely understood what I was talking about, or at the very least, was paying attention to me. Not a lot of guys had that quality about them. And to make it worse, those bright green eyes and softened face made me a little unbalanced in my seat.

“I believe so,” he responded. “Maybe. Humor me.” And it was then that I lost all coherent thought.

“Well, um- I-” I stumbled, then took a breath and looked out the window again. Was it that important of a topic to him? I guess, thinking about it now, it was alright that I opened up. “It’s either I see one or the other. Mom’s on a business trip or dad’s building a school in Haiti. Not that I don’t think that’s not awesome, but…” And then -- blank. I allowed the silence to speak for me, and looked up at him. Not that I was emotional, because it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I felt vulnerable.

“I understand,” he responded, and that was all he needed to say, because I felt infinitely better.

“So what were your parents like? You know, to you,” I asked, trying to match his level of interest.

“Well, my mom died in… she died a few years back. I was raised by my father. He was a slippery kind of guy, but he was genuine.” I smiled sadly for a moment and felt empathetic. Then, I managed to catch something unusual in his speech.

“’Was’…?” I asked, questioning the tense of the word, but I immediately regretted it. His father must've only recently passed away or something, I thought. I tried to fix it. “No, sorry. I didn’t mean that.” But, did I? I guess I just fixed my error to escape the guilt of bringing up a potentially touchy subject. Yet I did want to know the implications, on some level. Not enough to ask again, though.