Notes and Pictures
Summary: Brittany finds an agenda and doesn't know what to do with it.
It's strange, how much you can learn about someone by rifling through their agenda. You've never met this person (a woman, judging by the neat script) yet in all of 30 seconds, you found out their work schedule, when certain papers are due, how much time she spend at the gym (you're impressed) and appointments with friends. Q seems to be a favourite.
You stop at some pictures that are stuck between the pages. They're all beautiful, mostly black and white and none of them portray people.
This doesn't really help you finding the owner.
Seeing as some of the notes seem to be written in Spanish, you guess that she's Hispanic. Well, that's just wildly unhelpful: it seems like you're looking for a Latina in New York.
Maybe she put her phone number in it? Apparently not, which means she's either lax or very private. No luck at an emergency contact either, perfect.
You don't think it will be of any help to drop it off at the lost and found and perhaps she won't even miss it.
You take one more look around the library and decide to just take it with you. Who knows, maybe she'll be here again tomorrow. Anyway, you're late to dance class and you'll look it over again at home, maybe you'll find something then.
It's been three weeks and you're still not any closer to finding the owner of the agenda. You make sure you always have it with you, just in case you run into a Latina looking around the library. You never do.
You find it strangely reassuring to just take it out and flip through the pages. Some of the notes you found out are actually poetry, quotes from famous dead people or lines from a classic book you've never bothered to read.
Most books you read were for school, and you hated them. You're sure Mrs. Brown picked them out just to torture you and kill any joy ever may have had in literature.
You regret that now.
This girl seems to live for it. Pablo Neruda and Shakespeare keep popping up and you find yourself hesitantly begin to appreciate them as well. In small doses, but it's a start.
There are also notes, hidden in the back and scribbled as in a hurry, that you can't find a source of. You like these best and wonder where she found them.
It takes takes another month before you get another idea how you might find the mysterious owner of 'your' agenda. The photos.
Last night you got off the subway one station early because some creep behind you thought rush hour was a perfect excuse to constantly touch your butt. It was just a couple of blocks. As you walked, the sun was setting and suddenly the depressing concrete buildings seemed less hard and intimidating. When you crossed the park, the sun hit the gazebo in decay just at the right angle and you recognised it as one of the pictures. Only you saw it in colour.
So since yesterday (and because it's the weekend and you have nothing better to do) you've started comparing the photos to landmarks in your neighbourhood. You're surprised and delighted to discover that most of them are from the park, or at least within a one block radius from it. She must live here, somewhere.
Sunday morning you put your plan into motion. Your roommate told you in her less than subtle way that you were ridiculous and how you shouldn't try to re-enact Amélie. While honestly it's her own fault for forcing you to watch the film (even though you completely fell in love with it after only two minutes. Despite the language barrier).
To your defense: you're not really trying to re-enact it, you've just been inspired by it. You would never take a picture of your bare stomach with a question mark on it and put it on every available surface in the park. That'd just be weird.
No, your plan is to put up some of her photos, accompanied by the notes that seem to suit it best. You only use the most recognisable photos, just in case.
You don't exactly know why, but you don't use any of the 'secret' notes. Maybe it's because you're selfish and want to keep them to yourself.
To make sure she knows how to contact you, you've included your phone number and adress, but not your name. That would be asking for trouble. You're curious how long it will take her to find you.
You're surprised when she makes it to your appartment before you do.
After taking the stairs to the eighth floor (the lift's broken again), you take a minute to catch your breath before turning the corner to your front door. As soon as you do though, you're breathless again.
There, nervously pacing, at the end of the hallway and in front of your door, is the girl whose agenda you've been carrying around with you for the last couple of weeks. She must be, if the long black hair and muttered Spanish are anything to go by.
And she's stunning.
Usually you're not quick to hand out compliments, but this girl… You know you're no good with words but even if you were, you don't think you would be able to properly express just how beautiful she is.
Suddenly, she stops mid-pace and looks up to you, furrowing her brow at your close proximity (when did you get so close?) and asks whether you're the one who found her agenda. She sounds unsure for some reason.
You nod and gesture for her to follow you inside. She does and you're relieved somehow.
You tell her to take a seat and you'll be right back. For safety reasons you thought it unwise to leave the cherished little book in the living room. Rachel's too nosy for her own good and you're strangely protective of the pictures and words inside the leather cover. Thank god she's not home tonight.
When you walk back into the living room she seems tense, perched on the edge of the sofa. You chuckle quietly and when she turns around, you hand her the book.
Although she doesn't thank you in so many words, you take comfort in the way she takes a deep breath and smiles softly.
You think maybe she's better in expressing herself through writing than actually talking. You don't mind. You're still a bit dazed by her company and don't think you'd be able to process much of what she'd say anyway.
She doesn't accept your offer for a drink, but you don't feel rejected. She explains she's in a hurry and gives you her name instead. You're much more thankful for that, even more so when she writes down her phone number. Just in case, she says. We'll get some drink later, as a thank you. But now she really has to leave, she's already late.
You let her out and just before she turns to walk out into the hallway, you offer her your name. She smiles again, fully this time. You're almost too distracted by cute dimples to watch her leave.
Tomorrow you're having coffee with Santana.