The Curious Case of Emma Lee

It was a rainy day, the day that I met her.

I remember the raindrops making their way down the shop windows as I walked along the sidewalk. I clutched my collar, holding it close to keep the precipitation out, and to keep the last vestiges of warmth inside my jacket. The jacket was old and worn, and it was already doing an unsatisfactory job keeping the rain at bay; I refused to carry an umbrella. My shoes splashed in the ever-growing legion of puddles, and I had to find some respite from the rain. I put my hand on the next handle I saw and pulled it open.

The air was warm inside and welcoming, and it seemed I had found my way into a small bar, and with some even greater luck, I found that I was the only patron. In it, there was a small, brown-haired woman. She was cleaning glasses and didn’t seem to notice me.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Beer?”

She never looked up from the glass. “That’s alarmingly generic.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“No,” she said. “I just thought that a writer would be more creative.”

“I guess I’m not that good,” I said before the realization hit. “How did you know I was a writer?”

“I know everything about you,” she said.

“You do?”

“No,” she said, and pointed to my dripping tweed jacket, “but the only guy who will wear that is either a writer or wants to be.”

“How do you know I’m not a wannabe?”

“Is there really any difference?” she said.

“I guess not.”

She kept cleaning the glass, letting her long, brown curls hang in her face. I saw an open bottle next to her, and glass filled with something that wasn’t water. “What are are you drinking?” I asked.

“Jameson,” she said.

“What?” My question forced her to look up, and I saw for the first time how beautiful she was. She had these brown eyes that, despite how young she appeared, made her seem older. “You said my name.”

“Oh god, your name is Jameson?” she said. “You wear a tweed coat, and your name is Jameson? You’re lucky you’re a writer”