He remains agape for six seconds, trying to accept that his eyes aren’t playing a twisted trick on him. The stranger he’s been brooding over for days is right there. Of all parks. Of all sports grounds. Of all people. Six seconds, then Charles hunches his shoulders and scuttles away. Loris can’t see him, it would be humiliating.
The feeling has sat heavy in Charles’ stomach since Thursday. A nauseating roast of well-done humiliation, sprinkled with a pinch of bewilderment, served with a side of bitterness and soaked in an overheated gravy.
What kind of Olwinski expert does the guy think he is?
Charles is actually livid, which is why he whirls around to retrace his steps. He deserves an explanation, an apology and a free glass of grenadine for his trouble. Who’s the real fraud here, if not the barman who offers a sympathetic ear only to—
Charles freezes again. He can’t jump down Loris’ throat in the middle of a park, in the middle of a kid group, right in the middle of a meltdown caused by an inaccurate book review. It’s absurd. He needs to retreat.
Unfortunately, a girl has decided to follow a sparrow skipping in his direction, and Loris darts towards the girl, the sparrow and Charles.
‘Asha! Get back here!’
Loris lifts her up to hold her over his shoulder like a sack and turns around. For a brief moment, Charles finds himself facing the girl’s toothy smile, then Loris pivots again.
‘Charles?’
‘I’m not stalking you!’
Charles bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood when the remark rattles in his brain. The girl flaps her legs, splashing mud around, but he’s stuck too deep in his abashment to dodge it.
‘Careful, Asha!’ Loris puts her down, pushes her towards the game area and looks back at Charles. ‘I didn’t think you were. Now I’m wondering.’
Plain absurd. To such a degree that there’s not much dignity left to salvage.
‘Do you have a minute?’
Loris juts his chin at the kids. ‘Not really. Why? You okay?’
‘No. I mean, yes! Yes, but we need to talk.’
‘About?’
‘The Mind of Wondersand how dead wrong you are.’
‘Ah.’ Loris’ mouth curves into a smirk that Charles instantly hates with a passion. ‘Sure. Happy to. My shift at the pub starts at five.’
‘When?’
‘Today. It seems urgent.’
‘No! It’s not urgent, it’s not— It’s not important,’ Charles retorts, aware that he’s made it sound like a vital necessity.
‘Whenever you want, then. You know where to find me.’
Loris turns on his heel, scoops up a loose ball from the ground and lopes towards the group.
Charles steps back, his fist pressed against his lips to squash a preposterous attempt at having the last word in what isn’t even an argument. Once on the path, he wiggles his legs to ease the tension of his body and sighs in relief when he spots George, weaving in and out between ramblers. Unlike Loris’, his friend’s placidity is familiar and comforting.
‘What’s the drama?’ Charles asks, adopting George’s steady pace to jog far away and never come to Regent’s Park on a Sunday morning ever again.
‘Investors chickening out and coders in a lather. Who’s that?’
‘Who?’
‘The rugby chap you were chatting with?’
‘No one. Just a guy I met at the North Haven.’
