Recollections three.
"Did you know that Leonardo DaVinci didn't invent the helicopter?" he said, a statement so bafflingly singular and out-of-the-blue that it made me look up from the blurb I was reading to see who was sharing this precious nugget of information with us, unsuspecting book-buyers. To my surprise, he was sharing it with you, nodding at the page in the massive coffee table book in front of you depicting Leonardo DaVinci's famous sketch of the corkscrew helicopter. I never saw you looking prettier than you did that day in that big bookstore over on Oxford Street, tentatively leafing through the collected works of the great Italian master, so, in all honesty, I couldn't exactly blame him for talking you up. He could have used a better line, but at least he put some effort into it, and you, well, you were always up for some fun and games. The trap was set before his first sentence even ended.
Indent"It was the Chinese," he continued. He was a plump guy, with a ruddish face and cheerful eyes, blonde, shaggy hair covering his ears, somehow looking both uncomfortable and confident in his button-down shirt and baggy jeans. You looked up from the page and looked him straight in the eye; he blinked twice and looked away, diverting his gaze to the page. You slowly raised your right hand and with your little pinky-finger hooked that wisp of hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear. You flashed him your famous smile, but he never saw it. "No, I did not know that," you said.
Indent"Yes!" he blurted out, regained courage making him look you in the eye again. "There are records of Chinese children playing with a helicopter-like device a good 1000 years before DaVinci made his sketch." His finger was now on the page, an inch or so from your hand. "You don't say?" you said, the rogue wisp of hair back in your face, giving you a coy, demure look. "Yep," he then said, beaming with confidence, thinking he had you. I was still pretending to read the blurb on the back of some generic piece of fiction a couple of yards away, and I felt kind of sorry for him, like you feel sorry for that baby wilderbeast being chased by a cheetah. "It was made of bamboo."
IndentAdmittedly, he did a commendable job, spending the ensuing three or four minutes keeping you moderately entertained with random tidbits of information about DaVinci, some rooted in factual history more than others, and you were ever the lady, smiling --and, on one occasion, actually shamelessly giggling-- at his jokes. The final blow, though, was when you firmly and unexpectedly grabbed his arm when you pretended to have to scratch a killer itch on your naked ankle, giving me, standing directly behind you, a small thrill as your skirt rose an inch or two. Or three. To this day I wonder if you perhaps played the double whammy there, seducing him with the touch and me with the glimpse.
IndentThe hand on the arm pushed him over the edge. I saw him breathe in deeply, as if pumping himself up, filling himself with courage. He put on a stoic, nonchalant face, and said, as casually as he could manage, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have something to do this afternoon, would you?" His smile was brave and determined, his eyes, for the first time since this brief liaisson began, firmly and unflinchingly on yours, as if hypnotising you into a positive answer. You acted surprised, taken aback; you were always good at that. "Erm, well, no, not really," you said. "I'm in town for a few days, sightseeing and all that. I have all the time in the world." His face erupted in a gleeful smile, and you smiled too, looking away coyly. "In that case," he said, "I'd like to discuss DaVinci some more over a cup of coffee somewhere. My treat, of course."
IndentGame, set and match. The trap, expertly set, had sprung. The chase was over and the wilderbeast found its neck firmly between the cheetah's powerful jaws. Suddenly you turned to me and stretched your hand out towards me. "Oh, honey?" I slowly looked up from the book, eyebrows raised in casual wonder. "Honey, this kind fellow ..." your other hand gesturing towards our hapless victim "... has offered to buy us a cup of coffee. What do you say?"
IndentWe ended up having that coffee together, just the two of us, paid with our own pounds and pences, and having a hearty laugh, too.
Indent"It was the Chinese," he continued. He was a plump guy, with a ruddish face and cheerful eyes, blonde, shaggy hair covering his ears, somehow looking both uncomfortable and confident in his button-down shirt and baggy jeans. You looked up from the page and looked him straight in the eye; he blinked twice and looked away, diverting his gaze to the page. You slowly raised your right hand and with your little pinky-finger hooked that wisp of hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ear. You flashed him your famous smile, but he never saw it. "No, I did not know that," you said.
Indent"Yes!" he blurted out, regained courage making him look you in the eye again. "There are records of Chinese children playing with a helicopter-like device a good 1000 years before DaVinci made his sketch." His finger was now on the page, an inch or so from your hand. "You don't say?" you said, the rogue wisp of hair back in your face, giving you a coy, demure look. "Yep," he then said, beaming with confidence, thinking he had you. I was still pretending to read the blurb on the back of some generic piece of fiction a couple of yards away, and I felt kind of sorry for him, like you feel sorry for that baby wilderbeast being chased by a cheetah. "It was made of bamboo."
IndentAdmittedly, he did a commendable job, spending the ensuing three or four minutes keeping you moderately entertained with random tidbits of information about DaVinci, some rooted in factual history more than others, and you were ever the lady, smiling --and, on one occasion, actually shamelessly giggling-- at his jokes. The final blow, though, was when you firmly and unexpectedly grabbed his arm when you pretended to have to scratch a killer itch on your naked ankle, giving me, standing directly behind you, a small thrill as your skirt rose an inch or two. Or three. To this day I wonder if you perhaps played the double whammy there, seducing him with the touch and me with the glimpse.
IndentThe hand on the arm pushed him over the edge. I saw him breathe in deeply, as if pumping himself up, filling himself with courage. He put on a stoic, nonchalant face, and said, as casually as he could manage, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have something to do this afternoon, would you?" His smile was brave and determined, his eyes, for the first time since this brief liaisson began, firmly and unflinchingly on yours, as if hypnotising you into a positive answer. You acted surprised, taken aback; you were always good at that. "Erm, well, no, not really," you said. "I'm in town for a few days, sightseeing and all that. I have all the time in the world." His face erupted in a gleeful smile, and you smiled too, looking away coyly. "In that case," he said, "I'd like to discuss DaVinci some more over a cup of coffee somewhere. My treat, of course."
IndentGame, set and match. The trap, expertly set, had sprung. The chase was over and the wilderbeast found its neck firmly between the cheetah's powerful jaws. Suddenly you turned to me and stretched your hand out towards me. "Oh, honey?" I slowly looked up from the book, eyebrows raised in casual wonder. "Honey, this kind fellow ..." your other hand gesturing towards our hapless victim "... has offered to buy us a cup of coffee. What do you say?"
IndentWe ended up having that coffee together, just the two of us, paid with our own pounds and pences, and having a hearty laugh, too.