Riverbank
I wonder, out of those gathered along the riverbank, how many know they're under a spell.
My wife is a Romance fiend, gobbling up all the variations possible. It’s also a genre I’ve avoided the most, not because it’s a lower form of literature or too feminine; I simple didn’t know where to start…
Typically woman dominate the romance section of the bookshops. And if the Good Reads reviews are anything to go by, most male writers who dabble in the genre are perverts and misogynist. I hope I come across as neither, but I’ll let you be the judges.
Ironically, I’m posting this in late July, it has been raining all night and as of mid-day it hasn’t stopped. God bless the Netherlands.
At the end of spring, snow still threatens to fall, and the wind roars with aggravation. I suppose, if we had the power it has, we would voice our despair with the glacial pace at which the season concludes. But we don’t, so instead, we watch our dirty windows, complaining under our breath so as not to tempt fate into slowing the pace even further. We continue cooking our stews and soups and slipping on our waterproofs every time we leave the house. We keep the blanket close by while we curl up on the sofa and maintain a stock of tea in our cupboards; in case we need to warm our souls. It’s in these final moments of misery that we are our most desperate, worn down and impressionable. We’re willing to believe anything that might signal an end to the melancholy. And there is a flurry of signs, true and false, sent our way. There’s the date on the calendar that’s supposed to signal the start of summer, but it’s a timetable sketched by human hands, and the sun is too far away to take note. She depends on the signs from the flowers, the trees and all manner of natural existence. Although, after a particularly dragging season, even they seemed lost in the lucidity. The daffodils have come and gone, and still, at least last night, my breath escaped in plumes.
I say all of this so you know how special today is; the first day of wall-to-wall sunshine. It’s a day that transforms the town far more than any gentrification or festival. On days like this, the sun provides more than its solar energy; it unleashes its rays of remembrance and romance, its heat of passion and provocativeness, and all of it mixes to nourish novelties and mitigate our maddening melancholy.
There’s nothing better than finding a spot on the grassy riverbank and laying there until the sun has kissed your face red. And it’s not just me; half the town comes out to fill those lush banks with baskets and banquets in tow. There’s a fever in the air, potent enough that the rules we’ve all become accustomed to are burnt away for a few hours, a day or two if we’re lucky. Strangers introduce themselves to neighbours and friends to foes. There’s a sort of rebirth, allowing for reinvention and reconciliation, but only while the sunlight holds us in its stare. Once it’s gone or stays too long that it becomes expected, our conventions return, bringing with them the crinkled foreheads and squinting eyes. Behind them, fear of the future and nausea for what’s new.
I stop by the shop at the bottom of my building before heading to the riverbank. It doesn’t matter what I buy, everything tastes good today. It’s early, eight twenty-three to be precise, and there’s fresh bread steaming in plastic covers. I take a baguette and find some sardines and mozzarella. Combined, they smell like nostalgia, reminding me of years past when I’d buy cheap bus tickets to the furthest destination and survive for as long as I could on the remnants of my meagre savings. My Genoa trip, the penultimate expedition, had concluded with an equal measure of horror and heartache after I found my Italian host tying up his newest visitor (a pretty Croatian girl) to the bed we had shared the night before. È la vita, he said as I hurriedly piled my things into my dilapidated suitcase.
The morning’s so hot I could be fooled into believing it was mid-afternoon. The riverbank is filling up with pale bodies, impatient to add a hue of bronze. But I find some space, in the half shade, under the jutting branch of an old oak tree. I have a book with me too; not to read, but to use as a pretext if I didn’t want to speak with someone. On days like this, you never know who’s going to pluck up some courage. A group of young girls are sitting to my left, gossiping about the school they should be in and a teacher that’s ‘too fit’.
“Did you see him yesterday?” One said to the rest.
“Stop!” The rest answered in a giggling chorus.
Somewhere behind me, a couple is reading, pausing every so often to ask what’s happening in the other's story. I listen for a few seconds, trying to identify the books. But neither of them sounds familiar. These are people that read their books.
Until today, it rained like it would never stop, so with the sun flexing her muscles, everything looks lush and vibrant. There are even bees, excitedly buzzing from one flower to the next, so distracted that the presents of jam and wine aren't interesting. I’m watching one, dusting itself in a purple hyacinth, when two guys take the spot next to me. My glance is involuntary, just a habit of nosiness. But one of them, a long-haired, Clubmaster-wearing painter (at least based on his spoiled jeans), shares my habit. I divert my line of sight to a riverboat chugging its way into sight over his shoulder; I’m nosey but not audacious. A golden retriever stands above the bow like a decorative figurehead on a golden age merchant ship. He’s silently sniffing the air, revelling in the change of weather as much as his lounging owners. The boat passes, turns a corner and leaves me with nothing to appease my attention. This is why I brought the book; I pull it out, opening it in the middle, page two-hundred and twenty-three. From experience, you’re much less likely to be bothered if you’re in the depths of a book rather than cracking it open for the first time. The chapter begins with a monologue from the protagonist, something about revenge and destiny. All books from a certain era are about one of those two things. But the more lines my eyes pass over, the more I want another glance. But I can’t, not while he’s watching me, and there’s no doubt that he is; I can feel my skin burning as he stares behind those shaded lenses. After a long winter, I’m out of shape and paler than most laying around me. I should be self-conscious, but I’m anything but, his glare is my hype man. It’s toning my muscles, bronzing my exposed legs and puckering my lips. Those that don’t watch, never see, and those that cannot see never win I read on page two-twentythree. It’s a line about war or resistance, but right now, it sounds like romance. I take a chance and glance his way, and once my eyes find their target, they’re met with questions. He’s turned away, giving me my turn to explore. There’s a faint scar on his cheek, starting at the top of his ear and ending in the middle of his cheek. His eyebrows are thick and black like they’ve been painted in oil, and his stubble is a mixture of black and grey. He’s bored of his view of the river and his friend, or so I assume, as his eyes meet mine. This time I’m bold and search his stare for his intentions. What do you want, I ask with a squint. You, he replies with a raise of his eyebrows. Contrary to natural laws, they’re real. Then, as quickly as my questions are answered we're separated; his friend wants his opinion on some girl’s dating profile.
“Right or left?” The friend asks, considering her the way most won't.
“She’s too good for you, mate,” he says, lowering his Clubmasters to get a better look. I see his eyes clearly; they're the darkest brown I’ve seen, the shade of raw cacao and just as delicious.
“Right, it is.”
“You know, you’ll never meet anyone good on there,” Cacao-eyes says, and something tells me he’s not speaking to his friend.
“Don’t be an arse.”
“I’m just saying… You’re more likely to find someone on a terrace or here, sitting on the riverbank.”
“What about this one,” the friend asks, and Cacao-eyes rolls his eyes and lands them on mine.
I try to ignore his subtlety, picking at my baguette and sardines while looking around, wondering if there might be another, more beautiful woman behind me. But the crowd around me hasn’t changed. The couple is still reading, with a pot of olives between them. To my left, the school girls are sunbathing, replacing gossip with headphones. Page two-twenty-four is even more riveting than its predecessor. There’s a line about garden walks, roses and hydrangeas, thyme and rosemary. Our protagonist is missing home, wishing for a moment of clouded skies and scented rain. It’s a sentiment I might believe in a few weeks from now, but at this moment, there’s nothing I want to see less than grey skies. The sun’s at its most intoxicating, lulling school girls into silence and filling me with spontaneity. I’m staring at page two-twenty-four, thinking about the note I’m going to write and the right words to use. My number, preceded by your riverbank girl or something just as cute. My pen has hidden itself in the depths of my bag, so by the time I find it my spontaneity has wained. They're words straight out of a rom-com, incapable of working in real life. But the sun is too strong, she's persistent, and her reflection on the river is too dazzling. The page comes away cleanly, but my hand's shaking a little as I start to write.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to make you nervous,” he says, sitting next to me. His eyes are even sweeter than I thought, with caramel brushed along the edges like the salt rim of a margarita.
“Nervous?” I repeat, crumpling my half-written note into a ball.
“Do you always treat your books like that?”
“It wasn’t a very good page.”
“Clearly. What made it so unbearable?”
“Oh nothing in particular, just a lot of rubbish about rosemary and rain.”
“Riveting,” he says, breaking eye contact and brushing his eyes over me.
“Exactly,” I say, and pull his chin back up to eye level. If it had been any other day, I wouldn’t have dared. But it felt good to take control, and the grin on his lips told me he enjoyed my assertiveness just as much as I did.
“Be careful,” he starts taking my hand in his. “You’ll start something today you won’t want to remember tomorrow.”
I wonder, out of those gathered along the riverbank, how many know they're under a spell. It doesn’t matter if the couple behind me or the gossiping girls do. With his warning, I know there were at least two; that will do for me.
“Where did your friend go?” I ask, only now remembering he’d been here too.
“Home,” I'm not sure I believe it, but his answer doesn’t matter, all I want to know is whether we are alone or not.
“What’s your name?” I ask after allowing his eyes to smother mine.
“Does it matter?”
“Not particularly, but what should I call you?”
“Anything you want. And what about you?” He replied, leaning back into the lush grassy bank.
“Call me River,” I say.
“In that case, call me Bank… it only seems fitting… So River, what are we doing for the rest of the day?” He says, slipping his gaze again.
“Up here, Mr Bank.”
“Sorry, it’s just the sunlight makes the river look so inviting,” He says, and I can feel its warmth pricking my skin.
“In that case, why not jump in,” I say, and can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“Good idea,” he says, leaning forwards and removing his sunglasses. “Hold these?” He asks, tucking the Ray-Bans into the collar of my T-shirt. It’s as close as he’s gotten, and I’m almost shivering. Then, he steps a few paces down the riverbank and dives into the sparkling water. The splash wakes the girls next to me and produces a laugh from the couple behind. His head and shoulders surface, and he tucks his long dark hair behind his ears. Then as quickly as he dove in, he hauls himself out, weighed down by the T-shirt and jeans he couldn't wait to remove.
“So what now, River?” He asks, retrieving his sunnies from my collar. I’m at a loss for words; they’re drowned out by the water dripping from his hair. His baggy shirt has become a second skin, and his paint-cover jeans look so heavy they might fall to the floor with another drop of water.
“Cold?” I manage.
“Not in the slightest. But I should go and change. Wanna join?”
So what now, River echoes in my head while I think of my next words. But my body doesn’t want to wait for them; my hands are packing my things, and my head is nodding.
Love, Luke
P.s comment below, who’s your favourite romance writer? (other than me ;)
It is quite a masculine romance novel