Unexpectingly Overheard

"Love life, and life will love you back"

Black hair.
Blue eyes.
Auther, reader.
Tall, strong.
Successful, rich.
Luke Hynes.

On this particular day, he'd found himself without any occupational disasters, good books, exciting movies or pretty women. The deadline for the release of his next book was as far away as he wished it to be, having just recently completely a novel (One Hundred Days; A Romance). A peek in between tightly drawn shutters revealed that some god had decided to bawl her eyes out today. Mr L. Hynes found it hard to sympathize. While he had been flitting from the TV, to the couch, to the kitchen, to the bar, reading a line of his newspaper, then flipping through the pages of a book he knew not the title of, the house shrunk in that suffocating, constricting, frustrating way until even the amount of paces from one wall to another seemed fewer than before and each breath seemed to suck less and less air in, in that small space that progressively grew smaller and smaller in ones mind. He flung himself out onto the veranda, and was promptly soaked to the skin. Pleasant day.

When he returned to the room, nothing had changed besides for the fact that a puddle of muddy water had begun to form where his pant legs met the floor. It was still too limiting for his taste. Disturbing the phone from where it had nestled into its cradle, he pressed a random speed dial. Instinct told him not to press number one. That was his editor. It was better to keep away from sleeping dragons. Number two was home. That was out as well. That left one in seven chances that it would his ex wife, one in three of the remaining chances it'd be one of this latest flings, half of the four buttons left were Sebastians home and mobile, and the remaining two were empty. Sebastian picked up on his mobile. He sounded stressed, no doubt from his hellish twins. God bless marriage.

A sharp swirl of black material (everyone wore black these days), the clunk of heavy boots and a pop of an umbrella was followed by the sound of a key turning a lock. Walking out of the driveway, he pulled out yet another set of keys and his car made an indignant squeak at being woken up on such a dreary day. The growled when it realized Mr Hynes intended to coax it from the warm garage into the muddy, sheeting rain. It wasn't a happy Mercedes right at that moment, not at all. As they wound down the clogged streets of central London, the unhappy Mercedes pondered upon why it was being mistreated so. Stuck in traffic, dirtying itself in spraying mud on the road, winding between battered Toyotas and a Ford or three hundred, and being left on the sidewalk crammed between a dozing 1980's and a motorbike smug in its rainproof covering. It was a Mercedes for heavens sake! Born to carry lavishly dressed women and smart tuxedo men to glittering hotels and left in pristine, spacious car parks. It sighed and promptly went back to sleep.

Meanwhile, Mr Hynes had been totally oblivious to the discontent of his car, being too buried in his own discontent. The cafe he arrived in was small, somewhat dimly lit and chilly. One could see the steam rising up from three coffee cups spread thinly throughout the room. One was perched happily beside an elderly gentleman, looking curiously on to his newspaper. One was contently cupped between the delicate, cold hands of a red nosed, cute looking art student, made obvious by her bright red hair and sketch book lying discarded on the table. Another squatted forlornly on the opposite side of the table to a dozing business man, who had no doubt forgotten all about his coffee in his sleep deprived stupor. It was to this man Mr Hynes greeted with a slap on the back. The man started awake, gazed dazedly at his life long friend then settled back into his seat with a grunt. He remembered his coffee, and chugged. He rubbed his eyes while Mr Hynes ordered a Caramel Latte, and managed to look somewhat energized by the time the waitress turned and sauntered back to the counter on her tethering heels. Both men stared, appreciating the way her skirt stretched tightly over her glutious maximus.

The conversation between the two men were of the kind that developed between two men who had no doubt been brother like in their childhood, mate like in their teenage years, friends in their college experience, and now held a sort of exasperation towards  the total lack of interest in what the other party had to say. They stared at each other a bit, taking in the changes, every new facial crease, every new grey hair, every square centimeter of newly tanned skin and every buffed and polished finger nail. One complained about work, wife, kids and mortgage while the other one exalted clubs, money, cars and mansions. Interest in women was about the only thing those two had left in common with each other. The rest had been swept away by luck all those years ago. So it was to no ones great surprise when the conversation ultimately turned to love. Even there, the differences are evident.

Mr Hynes gazed at Sebastian, with his hands worn from changing nappies, his frame slumped from overwork and his eyes glittering with emotion for his family, and felt a pang of something he could not quite place. Even has Sebastian complained, a tired smile hovered on the edges of his expression. For though he wrote about love, exalted love, made love and recieved love on a regular basis, he'd hardly ever been in love. He was too busy with his career, then too busy enjoying his youth, then too busy funding his expensive habits... And whether he realised or not, he'd soon become too selfish to even consider giving everything he had for someone else's affections. He told Sebastian this, in a very different way of course, and said that he wished someone would just love him for him, not his money, his fame or his looks. He told Sebastian he wished someone would be straight forward with him, tell him his faults and tell him that it's alright to be imperfect. He said he wished someone would shout out to him that they loved him, all of him, even if he was impoverished, ugly and sexually incompetant. The two men stayed in that cafe till the streets outside grew quite, and only the artst-to-be remained in the deserted little shop. With a spoken promise to meet again, this time, at Mr Hyne's house, addresses were exchanged.  The two men drove off in their seperate cars. Mercedes vs Mitsubishi. Mitsubishi won by taking the right turn. Mercedes sulked, and was ignored.

The next day, what sounded like the steady hissing of a steam engine woke Mr Hynes from a rather enjoyable dream. He winced as the harsh sunlight triumphantly defeated the receeding blinds and stung his eyes. A crowd had gathered at the foot of his three storey house, surrounding someone with red hair waving around what seemed to be a flashing placard. He dressed and tousled his hair in the mirror on the way out of the door. He froze, halfway between the outside and inside of his house, gaze fixed on a giant screen that flashed his life before his eyes.

L. Hynes + Lilien Harold = Love

Blink

L.H x 2, it's a Sign!

Blink

Sexual Incompetancy is Nothing!

Blink

I (heart) Your Weird Underwear!

Blink

The art student from yesterday gazed with wide, expectant eyes. The crowded alternated between "awwww"s and hysterical fits of laughing. A few old ladies looked scandalized. A few eager youngers snapped away with their cameras. As for said Mr L. Hynes? Well he took a step forward, rippled where he stood, then promptly passed out.

And no, those two never did end up getting married.