FIC: "Electric Dreams"
Title: Electric Dreams
Author: moi: newbiepoet/hazey_jane_i - whichever username you wanna call me.
Pairing: Greg/Jen (but of course)
Chapters: 8 in total, this is 1-4
Rating: PG-13. language.
Word Count: 12,059 total. 4,427 in this section.
Notes: Credit to Emma Garrard, the lovely jennipie1993, for the plot bunny.
the whole thing is written, its just too long to post in one.
Summary: Does fate exist? Or are events merely coincidental?
Mods, please may i have a tag for this story, s: electric dreams. please? thank you :)
Chapter 1
Jennifer sits at her cluttered desk, spilling with forgotten pencil sketches of faded thoughts and feelings, sketching pencils worn down, light wood covered with graphite smudges. Tapping her pencil absentmindedly, she watches the watery yellow sun fade between the silhouetted buildings, her mind full of broken muses, mirroring the half complete sketches that had spilt from the desk, strewn across her room. Her ideas feel cramped now, crushed up into tiny corners of her mind, unable to expand freely.
She sighs deeply, lost in the silence surrounding her, unable to focus properly on a soul clear idea. Suddenly, she jumps, startled by the beep from the PC beside her. A boring white envelope signaling an e-mail message appears on the screen, and she rolls her eyes impatiently, assuming it to be nothing more spam mail. On inspection she finds herself blinking in surprise and confusion at the screen.
“Dear J.J.C…? What is this?” she breathes, reading through the email, growing sense of curiosity in the pit of her stomach.
Dear J.J.C,
I’m sorry I hope you don’t think this is intruding. I saw your artwork in a gallery near where I live. Unfortunately I don’t have enough money to afford one, but I thought I should still tell you I thought they were beautiful.
G.E.P.
Jennifer blinks, rereading it in disbelief. She chews her already half eaten pencil, small smile at the corner of her mouth. She sets it down, typing a reply, elegant fingers dancing over the keys which are clicking out the words at her whim.
“Dear G.E.P…” she mutters to herself, concentrating, not wanting to sound stupid as she writes, but not wanting to sound pretentious either.
Greg scribbles his notes, spiral of pale, sweet smelling smoke wafting from the half-smoked spliff on his desk, the end glowing orange in the unlit room as it burns slowly, forgotten by its owner. Computer running in the background Greg smiles as he writes with a soft, pleasant whirr of working machinery. Glancing up every so often he raises an eyebrow as the flashing email sign catches his eye, the unread message count sitting at one.
“They replied?” he asks the empty room in surprise. He‘d been so lost in his work to notice the reply that was sent over an hour before. Sitting up straight he reads the reply eagerly, eyes skimming the screen.
Dear G.E.P,..(Are you a sir or madam?)
I’ve never had an email like this, so fortunately I don’t have some conventional reply to toss your way, not that I ever would make one if this happened frequently. Thank you for the compliment, perhaps I’ll have to lower my prices. They aren’t particularly valuable really, you could always haggle for less! Again I’m flattered by your interest, maybe one day you can commission a painting by me.
J.J.C.
Greg laughs loudly, beaming at the artist’s reply, her writing intelligent sounding and funny too. He chews his lip, trying to think of a witty response to match theirs, gazing out the window at the fading San Francisco light, before typing rapidly.
“Dear J.J.C. I could ask you the same question…”
Jennifer stands up, yawning tiredly, her hands rubbing her itchy eyes as she switches off her computer, not realizing she has smudged graphite across her cheeks, too downhearted at the lack of reply. Guess they didn’t want to talk to her after all. Tidying away all her half drawn sketches and scraps of paper, piling them on her desk, the sun now completely gone outside Jennifer sighs as she prepares to go to bed in silence, feeling more alone than ever.
Greg chews his nails anxiously; worried he’s invaded this stranger’s personal space, intruded on something he wasn’t meant to know. They haven’t replied…they haven’t replied…they haven’t replied…
“I know!” he shouts to the empty room, throwing down his notes and stalking off, PC running in the background, burying his head under his covers. Can’t even keep contact with a stranger over the internet. Fucking moron, destined to be alone. He sighs sadly, drifting to fitful sleep.
Chapter 2
Sunlight streams through Jennifer’s bedroom window, white curtains dancing in a soft breeze, a perfect environment to be in for relaxing. Jennifer sits at her desk, tapping her pencil, ideas still fragmented in her mind, not relaxed in the slightest. Idly she carves out patterns on the old wooden desk; her imagination locked away somewhere and the key missing. Throwing the pencil across the room she rests her head on her desk in frustration,
“Why can’t I draw…think Jennifer think…” she says softly, raising her head and turning on the computer, glancing at her silver clock on her desk.
“Oh shit!” she squeaks, dashing away to shower as the computer loads slowly. Jennifer races around her room, frantically shoving on her black skirt and blouse, pulling her unruly auburn waves behind her ears as she applies her small measure of make up deftly, looking up at the clock again.
“Gonna be late…Gonna get sacked…” she mutters furiously, stopping in her tracks as she sees the mail sign wink at her across the room. Jumping up and bounding over she double clicks on the envelope sign, gasping as she sees the reply, laughing as she scans through it, even though she knows she shouldn‘t, already running late this email won‘t help. She’ll really have to run now, but it’s worth it.
Dear J.J.C,
I could ask you the same question. I am, in actual fact, a sir. A poor sir, as you no doubt have noticed. That’s quite embarrassing now; I don’t know why I admitted it, I could have pretended to be a millionaire who has his assets frozen instead. Too late now I guess. My job doesn’t pay enough to ever afford your beautiful paintings, but I can hope, can’t I? I’m lucky that I make rent each month, with enough left over to feed my kitten. Begs the question why was I looking at your art, but I fancied a little culture, and couldn‘t buy any new records.
(Mr.) G.E.P.
Jennifer beams, torn between replying and heading to work. She chews her lip, glancing at her clock again; she is most definitely already late, what’s another 5 minutes into the bargain? She shoves on her boots, bundling her apron into her bag along with a tattered old sketchpad and pencil for her lunch break. She leans over the computer typing quickly, feeling an odd buzz in her stomach.
Dear G.E.P.
I am a Miss, and I know how you feel about not having any money. Painting rarely gives me a reasonable income, and I too have to work. In fact I’m late because instead I wanted to reply to this! And no, I’m not going to blame you, don’t you worry about that. Records? What were you considering? I hope it’s not Sting, he’s awful with his stupid fake Jamaican accent. It’s probably only me whom that bothers I’m sure. And who calls their rock band The Police?! Oxymoron to the max. I really have to sprint off now; I bet I’ll be punished for being late again. Working through lunch really is my favourite activity you know.
(Miss) J.J.C
She bites her lip, indecisive for a fraction before clicking send, whirling around and out the door without a second glance.
Jennifer sprints along the street, boots tapping loudly on the pavement. Suddenly she collides with what feels like a wall of steel, stumbling backwards.
“Oh shit! Fuck! Are you ok?” asks a worried voice, gentle arms clasping her shoulders, the smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave wafting over her. She gazes up, cheeks reddening, apology ready and stops.
“I…” Greg smiles at her speechless stare.
“I’ve really knocked you one haven’t I. Are you alright?” he asks again, gazing at her with intense brown eyes, biscuit curls blowing in the morning breeze. Jennifer nods, still tongue tied.
“Your gonna be late sweetie, looks like you were in a hurry. No harm done, I should have been watching where I was going too.” He says warmly, releasing her shoulders. Jennifer nods again, cheeks calming as she feels less stupid. Greg gazes at her, taking in her soft curling hair, intelligent eyes and pink cheeks. He watches as she smiles brightly, recovering her composure.
“Yes, I’m going to be pretty late now. I’m sorry, sir.” Greg beams
“No need for apologies, it was absolutely all my fault. You can tell your boss that too,” Jennifer laughs, turning and starting off at a run, again. “Have a good day!” he calls after her retreating back, shaking his head in a mix of amusement and amazement.
Jennifer skids into the coffee house, pulling on her apron, ducking and weaving through customers and under the counter.
“Late again are we Jennifer?” Jennifer sighs, turning to face her boss as she hears his gruff voice behind her.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I got held up...” Her boss rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his broad chest.
“Well you can work through your break to make up the time you’ve lost.” Jennifer nods sadly, turning away to start her shift properly. No drawing today then. “Oh and your on the till today Jennifer” She nods again, tying her apron properly and fixing her smile in place, ready to face the stream of customers.
Greg sighs, running a hand through his springy brown curls, mind half on the mystery J.J.C. and whether she had gotten his email, and more importantly would she care enough to reply, half on the young woman whom had ran into him that morning. He’d received the email midway through writing a joke, distracted by the bleep he’d read and replied rapidly before deciding to go for a walk, his thoughts again scattered by the young woman and her panic.
“Time for a coffee before work” he grumbles reluctantly, trailing into the coffee house. Jennifer wipes her eyes roughly on her sleeve as she serves customers, determined not to cry at work, biting the inside of her lip as she stares down at the till, fighting to keep her smile flawless. Greg gazes around the room before heading to the counter, indecisive as always.
“Hi Miss…can I have…Hey! It’s you!” Jennifer blinks, startled from her revive, looking up and into the soft brown eyes of the man she ran into earlier that morning. “I’m still sorry about not watching where I was walking” he says sheepishly, smiling brightly at her before narrowing his eyes and scrutinizing her watery eyes. “Are you ok sweetie?” Jennifer musters a small smile and a nod, pushing her long hair behind her ears. Greg smiles back as her hair springs back, resilient.
“Yes, yes I’m fine. What can I get you sir?”
Greg gazes at Jennifer as he sips his coffee. It had taken an age to decide; eventually he’d made her choose for him. It had made her laugh, which was all he wanted to achieve. He watches as her elegant fingers skim the keys on the till, handing different customers their coffee, smile glued on. He chews his lip in thought, seeing that smile falter when she thinks nobody is watching.
“Poor woman…” he sighs, captivated by her, forgetting the time. “Oh shit!” He jumps up suddenly, almost spilling the last of his own coffee, turning several heads and causing Jennifer to look up, faint blush on her cheeks, embarrassed for him. Greg waves brightly at her, nonchalant, strolling up to her.
“Have a good shift pookie” he breathes with a boyish grin, winking at the waiting customers, trudging back out into the cool breeze and towards the bar in for his own shift beginning. Reluctantly he pulls on an apron, one much more basic than Jennifer’s, pulling down the upturned chairs in anticipation of opening time, cleaning down the tables and setting out the ashtrays on his own, the dim lighting hiding the fact that he washed half heartedly. Grabbing a stool he flops down backstage, pulling his wad of notes out, editing them as the ideas flow in drips and drabs in the quiet before the storm of drunkards to come.
Jennifer slips off her apron tiredly, cramming it viciously into her bag, anger and frustration in equal measure as she stalks out into the street, irritation fuelling her fast pace home. Slamming her door she sinks down the wall, burying her head in her hands. It had gone even more downhill after the unusual stranger had left, her boss making her work through her lunch too, being stuck on the till all day.
“I’m never going to get anywhere” she breathes sadly, pulling herself up tiredly, hanging up her coat and pulling off her shoes. Too exhausted to bother with dinner she shuffles back to her bedroom, setting her untouched sketchpad back on her desk, frowning, having forgotten she’d left the computer running that morning, surprised to see a reply winking at her from the screen. Clicking it eagerly, desperate for one small thing to lift her mood, she feels her heart skip at the thought of a reply from the mystery G.E.P., delighted surprise that he is still interested in her.
Dear Miss J (I think we can drop the full initials now)
You’re a Miss? Interesting… ;)
I now have two people’s lateness on my conscience, as I stalled a young woman this morning as I walked into her in my brainless state. I am a terrible person, I know. I really hope you didn’t get into too much trouble. I often find myself running late too, so you’re not alone in poor time keeping. Painting doesn’t earn you enough money? I thought you would be a wealthy successful artist! If not you should be.
As for records fear not, I’m not a Police fan, although that really did make me laugh. I might have to borrow that joke in future since I am struggling to be funny at the moment. I have my eye on a Lou Reed album, but there never seems to be enough money to spare to buy it, and I keep buying cigarettes with my record money. I can take it from the scorn bouncing off the page we are not a Sting fan? What do you approve of?
G
Jennifer smiles softly, her temper soothed and mood lifted, she seats herself at her desk, replying quickly, a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, tongue caught in her lips as she smiles brightly, feeling that old giddy thrill she used to feel when she was dating. Opening her windows wide, white curtains billowing in the cool air flowing through them, setting her favourite record playing and lighting candles to glow softly in the background she breathes in slowly and for the first time in a long time starts to draw something with calm conviction.
Greg stumbles from the stage, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, hearing the loudest applause he’s ever experienced. He blinks down at the notes clutched in his hand, pulled from his pocket. He’d told the Police joke, and the Sting joke. He had devoted at least 15 of his 30 minutes of material solidly to the observations, using them as a foundation to build from; and it all came from J. He pulls on his coat, still in disbelief, heading home eagerly to check his emails. As he does he wonders if it was possible to find one‘s soul mate and saviour over the internet.
Chapter 3
Dear G,
I was later than I planned, and yes I was in trouble but it was worth it. My artwork sadly isn’t as popular as I’d hoped, but maybe some day it will be. Any advice? You’re my one fan so far!
Thank goodness your not a Police fan, I’d feel terrible if I’d offended you. There’s no patent on my humour, its free for all. I’m just surprised it would bring a smile to anyone’s face, so thank you. Lou Reed? The Lou Reed? Well well we have something in common; Mr. Reed is my undoubted hero! Which was it you wanted to buy? I really want Take No Prisoners, but as you say there never seems to be quite enough money to buy it. Life’s a bitch like that. I do have Rock N Roll Animal, my most prized possession, strange as that may seem. I can’t draw without music, although I find Nick Drake to be drawing music. The best moment I ever had in a record store was when some guy was ranting and raving about John Cale, how he said Guts was this that and the next. How it was a guy’s album, how women could never like it. I was 15 at the time, and I went up and asked for it. The shock on his face was priceless and he tried to fob me off with some Paul McCartney thing, which I already had. I do love that album, its insane.
Something amazing happened last night, for the first time in ages I managed to draw something resembling artwork. I’ve been struggling for weeks to come up with a solid image, but finally I have something to work with. Your emails have cleared my head it seems.
J
Greg laughs loudly, grinning from ear to ear as he rereads her email for what must be approaching the 20th time in a day. He had actually enjoyed work, mind on J as he washed glasses.
“She’s so funny!” he exclaims to nobody in particular, there’s nobody to tell. He gazes at the screen dreamily, trying to imagine what she looks like. Long hair maybe, light brownish, artsy. She’s clever; she’d have sharp eyes, quick and bright. Suddenly an image of the young woman from earlier swims into this head. Greg shakes his head, rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t be stupid you moron” he chuckles, “Life doesn’t work like that! It‘d just be to cosmic-y fate, worlds colliding shit” He rolls his eyes at his own flight of fancy, replying eagerly, lighting up a spliff and sinking back onto his beat up sofa, trying - and failing - to conjure up a different picture in his head of what she could be like.
Dear J,
I’m so sorry (again) you were late! I hope today was better.
I couldn’t ever give you advice on your artwork, it’s beautiful. I don’t know anything about art; I’m an idiot like that. I draw stick men, and badly at that. All I know is Andy Warhol was awesome, and so are you. I really liked your bold colours in the one of the Golden Gate Bridge with the purple skyline. That’s the one that first caught my eye. Clearly you must be doing something correctly!
You outsmarted a record store dealer? I crown you queen of rock snobbery. That is a priceless moment, your right. Take No Prisoners? For real? That’s the same one as I want! Spooky, right? …There have been a lot of coincidences lately. Frampton is my constant companion at the moment. What do you think of him?
At 15 I was madly devoted to Heart, embarrassing as that may be to admit. She was just so…awesome. Ha. And at 15 I spent more time convincing my teachers I was smarter than them, than learning anything from them. It didn’t go so well.
You managed to draw something? I’m so happy I helped you out. My work somehow went amazingly well thanks to you. Everything just seemed to fit into place. Your hilarious, do you know that? How are you so funny? You sound so intelligent too.
This is gonna sound weird now...I don’t know why I can tell you things, its peculiar. I can open up to you, a complete stranger whom probably has no interest in what I’m saying anyway. But thanks, I’ve loved talking to you so far, I’d like to keep it up if you’d like to.
G
Jennifer gazes at the PC, glass of red wine in one hand, pencil in the other. She’d spent her entire evening relaxing after work. She’d gotten up extra early to make it on time, and had been surviving the day by thinking about G and his emails. Heading home again she had cooked herself her favourite meal, it had felt good to be back in the kitchen again, mixing ingredients, doing something she cherished.
Now, after a long bath she sits at her desk in her robe, soft music in the background, wine and pencils, content. She smiles and bites her lip as Greg’s email flashes up, pulse jumping to her throat in excitement. She feels herself blush, some part of her thoughts she has refused to call on for so many months now taking control, and she finds herself starting to want to know G more, meet him, talk to him…be with him. She shakes her head, scoffing. This is why she hadn’t let herself want anyone for a long time, it was often ridiculous and a fabrication of her active and engaging imagination. She sighs slightly, clicking on the message, reading it in a giddy thrill none the less, letting herself be carried away for the moment.
As she finishes, disbelief and joy flowing through her in equal measure, Jennifer opens up a word document. This reply had to be good.
****
He sighs happily as he glances at the computer, eager for her reply before he sets out to work again, maybe she’ll have more notes he can borrow for tonight. He pulls off his Buddy Holly specs, polishing them on the sleeve of his old t-shirt impatiently. He should take better care of them, who knows when he could get a new pair and with nobody around he really would be screwed if they broke. He pulls on his worn coat, shoving on beat up trainers. He checks the screen again, unfazed by her lack of reply; something to look forward to. He’s not had that feeling for a long time.
Heading out the door and down the street he jumps into the coffee house, lighting up as he sees Jennifer at the till.
“Late today were you pookie?” he enquires gently. Jennifer nods.
“Yeah…but I’m doing better” Greg smiles happily, “I realized I don’t really care what my boss thinks” she says softly, giving him a shy smile. Greg chuckles, pulling out his wallet.
“Oh shit, I don’t have enough…” he mutters. Jennifer bites her lip, before smiling again.
“Don’t worry about it, just take it” she says kindly.
“But I can’t! You’re gonna get yourself fired!” Greg exclaims quietly. Jennifer shrugs,
“It’s just a cup of coffee, who cares.” she says, pressing it into his hand gently. Greg blinks at her in a double take.
“You’re serious aren’t you?” he asks goofily.
“Utterly.” Jennifer replies, and Greg beams brightly.
“Golly…” is all he can manage and Jennifer laughs, making a mental note to tell G in her reply when she gets home how hilarious saying “golly” is as Greg trips away, spellbound, thinking how beautiful her laugh is.
Chapter 4
Jennifer scrutinizes the text document. She’d spent all day worrying about how to reply properly, fearful she may have interpreted his email wrongly, or could be walking into a trick. What if he was a monster, one of those internet scammers who really killed young women when they agreed to meet them? More scarily, what if he wasn’t? Could she really manage to let another human being into her life again? She grabs a pencil from her desk, spreading out a sheet of dark paper. Sketching roughly a set of scales appears from her fingertips, Libra on the page. Then she smiles. Better, not brilliant, still too small, but maybe the start of what was to come, a freedom she would soon find if she made the right choice.
Dear G,
What star sign are you?
J
Lazily Greg pings paper balls into his bin. Well, to the general vicinity of the trash can at least, rarely did he actually get one in. Greg jumps as he hears a beep, distractedly throwing the paper, which lands squarely in the can. He blinks rapidly at the screen, clicking the unopened envelope. He snorts in surprise. What? How did she get that? He laughs and smiles, replying quickly.
Dear J,
Libra. Pour quoi?
G
Jennifer smiles widely, making her decision. She focuses on filling in all the finer details of the scales, carefully creating the full constellation. She stands back, admiring her finished artwork, feeling calmer and surer of herself, making her decision. Quickly she copies and pastes the original email, clicking send with a flip of her stomach, before she has a chance to hesitate. Grabbing her paints and heading to her colour splattered, dust caked studio, an old creative buzz returning with each step, feeling her skin tingle and her fingers twitch, eager to try the newly formed ideas in her head. She sets up her canvas on the empty wall, and for the first time in a long time, begins to paint.
Greg jumps in shock at hearing his computer beep, causing an unsteady stack on notes to flop onto the floor, flying everywhere in a paper storm. Greg doesn’t notice, eyes widening at the length of her email. He leans up in his chair, straightening his glasses and tucking in his shirt as if she could see him, reading quickly.
Dear G…
I asked because I wanted to make a decision, and was balancing out the odds. What a coincidence.
I have loved talking to you, you’ve been better company than people I speak to face to face daily. Thank you for all your compliments, they’ve really lifted my spirit. I would love to keep talking to you.
No. Its not weird in the slightest. I can tell you things and not be laughed at. It’s different…special. But not weird.
J
Ps: I met someone else who says ‘golly’ today.
Greg’s heart skips several beats before he reminds it to work, rereading the email over and over until the message was digitally encoded on his retina. Swallowing nervously, he types out a reply, taking a hit from a nearby permanently lit spliff, drawing courage from its comforting sweet smoke, slamming his eyes shut and stabbing enter.
J
Would you like to meet…?
G
Jennifer smiles softly at the screen, knowing the answer immediately. She types out three letters.
Yes.
Author: moi: newbiepoet/hazey_jane_i - whichever username you wanna call me.
Pairing: Greg/Jen (but of course)
Chapters: 8 in total, this is 1-4
Rating: PG-13. language.
Word Count: 12,059 total. 4,427 in this section.
Notes: Credit to Emma Garrard, the lovely jennipie1993, for the plot bunny.
the whole thing is written, its just too long to post in one.
Summary: Does fate exist? Or are events merely coincidental?
Mods, please may i have a tag for this story, s: electric dreams. please? thank you :)
Chapter 1
Jennifer sits at her cluttered desk, spilling with forgotten pencil sketches of faded thoughts and feelings, sketching pencils worn down, light wood covered with graphite smudges. Tapping her pencil absentmindedly, she watches the watery yellow sun fade between the silhouetted buildings, her mind full of broken muses, mirroring the half complete sketches that had spilt from the desk, strewn across her room. Her ideas feel cramped now, crushed up into tiny corners of her mind, unable to expand freely.
She sighs deeply, lost in the silence surrounding her, unable to focus properly on a soul clear idea. Suddenly, she jumps, startled by the beep from the PC beside her. A boring white envelope signaling an e-mail message appears on the screen, and she rolls her eyes impatiently, assuming it to be nothing more spam mail. On inspection she finds herself blinking in surprise and confusion at the screen.
“Dear J.J.C…? What is this?” she breathes, reading through the email, growing sense of curiosity in the pit of her stomach.
Dear J.J.C,
I’m sorry I hope you don’t think this is intruding. I saw your artwork in a gallery near where I live. Unfortunately I don’t have enough money to afford one, but I thought I should still tell you I thought they were beautiful.
G.E.P.
Jennifer blinks, rereading it in disbelief. She chews her already half eaten pencil, small smile at the corner of her mouth. She sets it down, typing a reply, elegant fingers dancing over the keys which are clicking out the words at her whim.
“Dear G.E.P…” she mutters to herself, concentrating, not wanting to sound stupid as she writes, but not wanting to sound pretentious either.
Greg scribbles his notes, spiral of pale, sweet smelling smoke wafting from the half-smoked spliff on his desk, the end glowing orange in the unlit room as it burns slowly, forgotten by its owner. Computer running in the background Greg smiles as he writes with a soft, pleasant whirr of working machinery. Glancing up every so often he raises an eyebrow as the flashing email sign catches his eye, the unread message count sitting at one.
“They replied?” he asks the empty room in surprise. He‘d been so lost in his work to notice the reply that was sent over an hour before. Sitting up straight he reads the reply eagerly, eyes skimming the screen.
Dear G.E.P,..(Are you a sir or madam?)
I’ve never had an email like this, so fortunately I don’t have some conventional reply to toss your way, not that I ever would make one if this happened frequently. Thank you for the compliment, perhaps I’ll have to lower my prices. They aren’t particularly valuable really, you could always haggle for less! Again I’m flattered by your interest, maybe one day you can commission a painting by me.
J.J.C.
Greg laughs loudly, beaming at the artist’s reply, her writing intelligent sounding and funny too. He chews his lip, trying to think of a witty response to match theirs, gazing out the window at the fading San Francisco light, before typing rapidly.
“Dear J.J.C. I could ask you the same question…”
Jennifer stands up, yawning tiredly, her hands rubbing her itchy eyes as she switches off her computer, not realizing she has smudged graphite across her cheeks, too downhearted at the lack of reply. Guess they didn’t want to talk to her after all. Tidying away all her half drawn sketches and scraps of paper, piling them on her desk, the sun now completely gone outside Jennifer sighs as she prepares to go to bed in silence, feeling more alone than ever.
Greg chews his nails anxiously; worried he’s invaded this stranger’s personal space, intruded on something he wasn’t meant to know. They haven’t replied…they haven’t replied…they haven’t replied…
“I know!” he shouts to the empty room, throwing down his notes and stalking off, PC running in the background, burying his head under his covers. Can’t even keep contact with a stranger over the internet. Fucking moron, destined to be alone. He sighs sadly, drifting to fitful sleep.
Chapter 2
Sunlight streams through Jennifer’s bedroom window, white curtains dancing in a soft breeze, a perfect environment to be in for relaxing. Jennifer sits at her desk, tapping her pencil, ideas still fragmented in her mind, not relaxed in the slightest. Idly she carves out patterns on the old wooden desk; her imagination locked away somewhere and the key missing. Throwing the pencil across the room she rests her head on her desk in frustration,
“Why can’t I draw…think Jennifer think…” she says softly, raising her head and turning on the computer, glancing at her silver clock on her desk.
“Oh shit!” she squeaks, dashing away to shower as the computer loads slowly. Jennifer races around her room, frantically shoving on her black skirt and blouse, pulling her unruly auburn waves behind her ears as she applies her small measure of make up deftly, looking up at the clock again.
“Gonna be late…Gonna get sacked…” she mutters furiously, stopping in her tracks as she sees the mail sign wink at her across the room. Jumping up and bounding over she double clicks on the envelope sign, gasping as she sees the reply, laughing as she scans through it, even though she knows she shouldn‘t, already running late this email won‘t help. She’ll really have to run now, but it’s worth it.
Dear J.J.C,
I could ask you the same question. I am, in actual fact, a sir. A poor sir, as you no doubt have noticed. That’s quite embarrassing now; I don’t know why I admitted it, I could have pretended to be a millionaire who has his assets frozen instead. Too late now I guess. My job doesn’t pay enough to ever afford your beautiful paintings, but I can hope, can’t I? I’m lucky that I make rent each month, with enough left over to feed my kitten. Begs the question why was I looking at your art, but I fancied a little culture, and couldn‘t buy any new records.
(Mr.) G.E.P.
Jennifer beams, torn between replying and heading to work. She chews her lip, glancing at her clock again; she is most definitely already late, what’s another 5 minutes into the bargain? She shoves on her boots, bundling her apron into her bag along with a tattered old sketchpad and pencil for her lunch break. She leans over the computer typing quickly, feeling an odd buzz in her stomach.
Dear G.E.P.
I am a Miss, and I know how you feel about not having any money. Painting rarely gives me a reasonable income, and I too have to work. In fact I’m late because instead I wanted to reply to this! And no, I’m not going to blame you, don’t you worry about that. Records? What were you considering? I hope it’s not Sting, he’s awful with his stupid fake Jamaican accent. It’s probably only me whom that bothers I’m sure. And who calls their rock band The Police?! Oxymoron to the max. I really have to sprint off now; I bet I’ll be punished for being late again. Working through lunch really is my favourite activity you know.
(Miss) J.J.C
She bites her lip, indecisive for a fraction before clicking send, whirling around and out the door without a second glance.
Jennifer sprints along the street, boots tapping loudly on the pavement. Suddenly she collides with what feels like a wall of steel, stumbling backwards.
“Oh shit! Fuck! Are you ok?” asks a worried voice, gentle arms clasping her shoulders, the smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave wafting over her. She gazes up, cheeks reddening, apology ready and stops.
“I…” Greg smiles at her speechless stare.
“I’ve really knocked you one haven’t I. Are you alright?” he asks again, gazing at her with intense brown eyes, biscuit curls blowing in the morning breeze. Jennifer nods, still tongue tied.
“Your gonna be late sweetie, looks like you were in a hurry. No harm done, I should have been watching where I was going too.” He says warmly, releasing her shoulders. Jennifer nods again, cheeks calming as she feels less stupid. Greg gazes at her, taking in her soft curling hair, intelligent eyes and pink cheeks. He watches as she smiles brightly, recovering her composure.
“Yes, I’m going to be pretty late now. I’m sorry, sir.” Greg beams
“No need for apologies, it was absolutely all my fault. You can tell your boss that too,” Jennifer laughs, turning and starting off at a run, again. “Have a good day!” he calls after her retreating back, shaking his head in a mix of amusement and amazement.
Jennifer skids into the coffee house, pulling on her apron, ducking and weaving through customers and under the counter.
“Late again are we Jennifer?” Jennifer sighs, turning to face her boss as she hears his gruff voice behind her.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I got held up...” Her boss rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his broad chest.
“Well you can work through your break to make up the time you’ve lost.” Jennifer nods sadly, turning away to start her shift properly. No drawing today then. “Oh and your on the till today Jennifer” She nods again, tying her apron properly and fixing her smile in place, ready to face the stream of customers.
Greg sighs, running a hand through his springy brown curls, mind half on the mystery J.J.C. and whether she had gotten his email, and more importantly would she care enough to reply, half on the young woman whom had ran into him that morning. He’d received the email midway through writing a joke, distracted by the bleep he’d read and replied rapidly before deciding to go for a walk, his thoughts again scattered by the young woman and her panic.
“Time for a coffee before work” he grumbles reluctantly, trailing into the coffee house. Jennifer wipes her eyes roughly on her sleeve as she serves customers, determined not to cry at work, biting the inside of her lip as she stares down at the till, fighting to keep her smile flawless. Greg gazes around the room before heading to the counter, indecisive as always.
“Hi Miss…can I have…Hey! It’s you!” Jennifer blinks, startled from her revive, looking up and into the soft brown eyes of the man she ran into earlier that morning. “I’m still sorry about not watching where I was walking” he says sheepishly, smiling brightly at her before narrowing his eyes and scrutinizing her watery eyes. “Are you ok sweetie?” Jennifer musters a small smile and a nod, pushing her long hair behind her ears. Greg smiles back as her hair springs back, resilient.
“Yes, yes I’m fine. What can I get you sir?”
Greg gazes at Jennifer as he sips his coffee. It had taken an age to decide; eventually he’d made her choose for him. It had made her laugh, which was all he wanted to achieve. He watches as her elegant fingers skim the keys on the till, handing different customers their coffee, smile glued on. He chews his lip in thought, seeing that smile falter when she thinks nobody is watching.
“Poor woman…” he sighs, captivated by her, forgetting the time. “Oh shit!” He jumps up suddenly, almost spilling the last of his own coffee, turning several heads and causing Jennifer to look up, faint blush on her cheeks, embarrassed for him. Greg waves brightly at her, nonchalant, strolling up to her.
“Have a good shift pookie” he breathes with a boyish grin, winking at the waiting customers, trudging back out into the cool breeze and towards the bar in for his own shift beginning. Reluctantly he pulls on an apron, one much more basic than Jennifer’s, pulling down the upturned chairs in anticipation of opening time, cleaning down the tables and setting out the ashtrays on his own, the dim lighting hiding the fact that he washed half heartedly. Grabbing a stool he flops down backstage, pulling his wad of notes out, editing them as the ideas flow in drips and drabs in the quiet before the storm of drunkards to come.
Jennifer slips off her apron tiredly, cramming it viciously into her bag, anger and frustration in equal measure as she stalks out into the street, irritation fuelling her fast pace home. Slamming her door she sinks down the wall, burying her head in her hands. It had gone even more downhill after the unusual stranger had left, her boss making her work through her lunch too, being stuck on the till all day.
“I’m never going to get anywhere” she breathes sadly, pulling herself up tiredly, hanging up her coat and pulling off her shoes. Too exhausted to bother with dinner she shuffles back to her bedroom, setting her untouched sketchpad back on her desk, frowning, having forgotten she’d left the computer running that morning, surprised to see a reply winking at her from the screen. Clicking it eagerly, desperate for one small thing to lift her mood, she feels her heart skip at the thought of a reply from the mystery G.E.P., delighted surprise that he is still interested in her.
Dear Miss J (I think we can drop the full initials now)
You’re a Miss? Interesting… ;)
I now have two people’s lateness on my conscience, as I stalled a young woman this morning as I walked into her in my brainless state. I am a terrible person, I know. I really hope you didn’t get into too much trouble. I often find myself running late too, so you’re not alone in poor time keeping. Painting doesn’t earn you enough money? I thought you would be a wealthy successful artist! If not you should be.
As for records fear not, I’m not a Police fan, although that really did make me laugh. I might have to borrow that joke in future since I am struggling to be funny at the moment. I have my eye on a Lou Reed album, but there never seems to be enough money to spare to buy it, and I keep buying cigarettes with my record money. I can take it from the scorn bouncing off the page we are not a Sting fan? What do you approve of?
G
Jennifer smiles softly, her temper soothed and mood lifted, she seats herself at her desk, replying quickly, a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, tongue caught in her lips as she smiles brightly, feeling that old giddy thrill she used to feel when she was dating. Opening her windows wide, white curtains billowing in the cool air flowing through them, setting her favourite record playing and lighting candles to glow softly in the background she breathes in slowly and for the first time in a long time starts to draw something with calm conviction.
Greg stumbles from the stage, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, hearing the loudest applause he’s ever experienced. He blinks down at the notes clutched in his hand, pulled from his pocket. He’d told the Police joke, and the Sting joke. He had devoted at least 15 of his 30 minutes of material solidly to the observations, using them as a foundation to build from; and it all came from J. He pulls on his coat, still in disbelief, heading home eagerly to check his emails. As he does he wonders if it was possible to find one‘s soul mate and saviour over the internet.
Chapter 3
Dear G,
I was later than I planned, and yes I was in trouble but it was worth it. My artwork sadly isn’t as popular as I’d hoped, but maybe some day it will be. Any advice? You’re my one fan so far!
Thank goodness your not a Police fan, I’d feel terrible if I’d offended you. There’s no patent on my humour, its free for all. I’m just surprised it would bring a smile to anyone’s face, so thank you. Lou Reed? The Lou Reed? Well well we have something in common; Mr. Reed is my undoubted hero! Which was it you wanted to buy? I really want Take No Prisoners, but as you say there never seems to be quite enough money to buy it. Life’s a bitch like that. I do have Rock N Roll Animal, my most prized possession, strange as that may seem. I can’t draw without music, although I find Nick Drake to be drawing music. The best moment I ever had in a record store was when some guy was ranting and raving about John Cale, how he said Guts was this that and the next. How it was a guy’s album, how women could never like it. I was 15 at the time, and I went up and asked for it. The shock on his face was priceless and he tried to fob me off with some Paul McCartney thing, which I already had. I do love that album, its insane.
Something amazing happened last night, for the first time in ages I managed to draw something resembling artwork. I’ve been struggling for weeks to come up with a solid image, but finally I have something to work with. Your emails have cleared my head it seems.
J
Greg laughs loudly, grinning from ear to ear as he rereads her email for what must be approaching the 20th time in a day. He had actually enjoyed work, mind on J as he washed glasses.
“She’s so funny!” he exclaims to nobody in particular, there’s nobody to tell. He gazes at the screen dreamily, trying to imagine what she looks like. Long hair maybe, light brownish, artsy. She’s clever; she’d have sharp eyes, quick and bright. Suddenly an image of the young woman from earlier swims into this head. Greg shakes his head, rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t be stupid you moron” he chuckles, “Life doesn’t work like that! It‘d just be to cosmic-y fate, worlds colliding shit” He rolls his eyes at his own flight of fancy, replying eagerly, lighting up a spliff and sinking back onto his beat up sofa, trying - and failing - to conjure up a different picture in his head of what she could be like.
Dear J,
I’m so sorry (again) you were late! I hope today was better.
I couldn’t ever give you advice on your artwork, it’s beautiful. I don’t know anything about art; I’m an idiot like that. I draw stick men, and badly at that. All I know is Andy Warhol was awesome, and so are you. I really liked your bold colours in the one of the Golden Gate Bridge with the purple skyline. That’s the one that first caught my eye. Clearly you must be doing something correctly!
You outsmarted a record store dealer? I crown you queen of rock snobbery. That is a priceless moment, your right. Take No Prisoners? For real? That’s the same one as I want! Spooky, right? …There have been a lot of coincidences lately. Frampton is my constant companion at the moment. What do you think of him?
At 15 I was madly devoted to Heart, embarrassing as that may be to admit. She was just so…awesome. Ha. And at 15 I spent more time convincing my teachers I was smarter than them, than learning anything from them. It didn’t go so well.
You managed to draw something? I’m so happy I helped you out. My work somehow went amazingly well thanks to you. Everything just seemed to fit into place. Your hilarious, do you know that? How are you so funny? You sound so intelligent too.
This is gonna sound weird now...I don’t know why I can tell you things, its peculiar. I can open up to you, a complete stranger whom probably has no interest in what I’m saying anyway. But thanks, I’ve loved talking to you so far, I’d like to keep it up if you’d like to.
G
Jennifer gazes at the PC, glass of red wine in one hand, pencil in the other. She’d spent her entire evening relaxing after work. She’d gotten up extra early to make it on time, and had been surviving the day by thinking about G and his emails. Heading home again she had cooked herself her favourite meal, it had felt good to be back in the kitchen again, mixing ingredients, doing something she cherished.
Now, after a long bath she sits at her desk in her robe, soft music in the background, wine and pencils, content. She smiles and bites her lip as Greg’s email flashes up, pulse jumping to her throat in excitement. She feels herself blush, some part of her thoughts she has refused to call on for so many months now taking control, and she finds herself starting to want to know G more, meet him, talk to him…be with him. She shakes her head, scoffing. This is why she hadn’t let herself want anyone for a long time, it was often ridiculous and a fabrication of her active and engaging imagination. She sighs slightly, clicking on the message, reading it in a giddy thrill none the less, letting herself be carried away for the moment.
As she finishes, disbelief and joy flowing through her in equal measure, Jennifer opens up a word document. This reply had to be good.
****
He sighs happily as he glances at the computer, eager for her reply before he sets out to work again, maybe she’ll have more notes he can borrow for tonight. He pulls off his Buddy Holly specs, polishing them on the sleeve of his old t-shirt impatiently. He should take better care of them, who knows when he could get a new pair and with nobody around he really would be screwed if they broke. He pulls on his worn coat, shoving on beat up trainers. He checks the screen again, unfazed by her lack of reply; something to look forward to. He’s not had that feeling for a long time.
Heading out the door and down the street he jumps into the coffee house, lighting up as he sees Jennifer at the till.
“Late today were you pookie?” he enquires gently. Jennifer nods.
“Yeah…but I’m doing better” Greg smiles happily, “I realized I don’t really care what my boss thinks” she says softly, giving him a shy smile. Greg chuckles, pulling out his wallet.
“Oh shit, I don’t have enough…” he mutters. Jennifer bites her lip, before smiling again.
“Don’t worry about it, just take it” she says kindly.
“But I can’t! You’re gonna get yourself fired!” Greg exclaims quietly. Jennifer shrugs,
“It’s just a cup of coffee, who cares.” she says, pressing it into his hand gently. Greg blinks at her in a double take.
“You’re serious aren’t you?” he asks goofily.
“Utterly.” Jennifer replies, and Greg beams brightly.
“Golly…” is all he can manage and Jennifer laughs, making a mental note to tell G in her reply when she gets home how hilarious saying “golly” is as Greg trips away, spellbound, thinking how beautiful her laugh is.
Chapter 4
Jennifer scrutinizes the text document. She’d spent all day worrying about how to reply properly, fearful she may have interpreted his email wrongly, or could be walking into a trick. What if he was a monster, one of those internet scammers who really killed young women when they agreed to meet them? More scarily, what if he wasn’t? Could she really manage to let another human being into her life again? She grabs a pencil from her desk, spreading out a sheet of dark paper. Sketching roughly a set of scales appears from her fingertips, Libra on the page. Then she smiles. Better, not brilliant, still too small, but maybe the start of what was to come, a freedom she would soon find if she made the right choice.
Dear G,
What star sign are you?
J
Lazily Greg pings paper balls into his bin. Well, to the general vicinity of the trash can at least, rarely did he actually get one in. Greg jumps as he hears a beep, distractedly throwing the paper, which lands squarely in the can. He blinks rapidly at the screen, clicking the unopened envelope. He snorts in surprise. What? How did she get that? He laughs and smiles, replying quickly.
Dear J,
Libra. Pour quoi?
G
Jennifer smiles widely, making her decision. She focuses on filling in all the finer details of the scales, carefully creating the full constellation. She stands back, admiring her finished artwork, feeling calmer and surer of herself, making her decision. Quickly she copies and pastes the original email, clicking send with a flip of her stomach, before she has a chance to hesitate. Grabbing her paints and heading to her colour splattered, dust caked studio, an old creative buzz returning with each step, feeling her skin tingle and her fingers twitch, eager to try the newly formed ideas in her head. She sets up her canvas on the empty wall, and for the first time in a long time, begins to paint.
Greg jumps in shock at hearing his computer beep, causing an unsteady stack on notes to flop onto the floor, flying everywhere in a paper storm. Greg doesn’t notice, eyes widening at the length of her email. He leans up in his chair, straightening his glasses and tucking in his shirt as if she could see him, reading quickly.
Dear G…
I asked because I wanted to make a decision, and was balancing out the odds. What a coincidence.
I have loved talking to you, you’ve been better company than people I speak to face to face daily. Thank you for all your compliments, they’ve really lifted my spirit. I would love to keep talking to you.
No. Its not weird in the slightest. I can tell you things and not be laughed at. It’s different…special. But not weird.
J
Ps: I met someone else who says ‘golly’ today.
Greg’s heart skips several beats before he reminds it to work, rereading the email over and over until the message was digitally encoded on his retina. Swallowing nervously, he types out a reply, taking a hit from a nearby permanently lit spliff, drawing courage from its comforting sweet smoke, slamming his eyes shut and stabbing enter.
J
Would you like to meet…?
G
Jennifer smiles softly at the screen, knowing the answer immediately. She types out three letters.
Yes.