I was wandering the dimly lit streets of Manchester, unaware of what fate had in store. My mind seemed vacant, my instincts silent. An hour earlier, my wallet had been stolen, taking with it all the cash I had. I walked aimlessly, unsure how to get home, not even remembering the phone in my pocket with a linked card.
“I could take the tram, even hop on without paying. Or call Ben, but I’d hate to bother him,” I mused when suddenly, a woman’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Excuse me…”
I turned. Two young women stood before me, though only one spoke.
“Do you know where the café ‘The Hearth’ is nearby?” she asked, offering a faint smile.
I looked at her—and the world stopped. I swear I’d never seen such beauty. I wasn’t some lovestruck lad anymore, but my heart pounded like a schoolboy’s, my throat tightening.
“Which one do you want? There’s two,” I blurted. “One for romance, the other for business meetings.”
“Are you joking?” She arched a delicate brow.
I knew I’d misspoken, but my old boxing coach used to say, “Keep moving, even if you’re wrong. Action is your anchor.”
“No, not joking,” I replied, scrambling. “Both are just around the corner, but I don’t know which one you’re after.”
“How should we decide?” she teased.
“Well, one’s for career women, the other…” I hesitated, sensing the conversation slipping away.
“Save yourself while you can,” my mind hissed.
“Did you mean for blondes?” she quipped, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Defeat loomed, so I doubled down. A psychologist friend once told me, “Some people see through lies like glass.”
“Look, it’s not my place,” I began, “but if my sister were choosing, I’d steer her clear of the ‘career’ one. And as for blondes… Tell me, should a woman pick a man by his success or how he makes her feel? If she chooses the first, she’ll start competing with him. And women, well, they’re better at that than we are.” I paused, words flowing unchecked. “She’d win but lose her joy. So I didn’t want you to… Well, you understand. But I can’t dictate. Hence the question.”
“Smooth recovery!” She laughed. “But that blonde remark’s still showing, even behind fancy words.”
Her friend gaped at us like a cat mesmerised by a dangling toy, eyes darting between us.
“You know,” I plunged ahead, riding the momentum, “I could explain further—if you give me a chance. Fair warning: my arguments are hard to resist.”
I glanced at her friend, then back at her. She held my gaze, as if puzzling me out.
“Give me half an hour to finish something, then meet me at the café?”
Her eyes flicked to a lamppost, and I knew I’d bought time.
“One thing,” I said, handing her my phone. “Put in your number. In case I can’t find you—it’ll be crowded.”
As she took it, I felt like I’d handed over my heart.
“James,” I said as she typed.
“Emily,” she replied, returning the phone with a small smile.
***
Three blocks later, still no ATM. My card had barely enough for emergencies, but I needed it now. “She doesn’t seem the type to expect me to pay,” I thought. “Still, best to cover coffee, just in case.”
“Wonder if she’ll ditch the friend. That ‘I’m with my mate’ routine always set my teeth on edge,” I mused, darting down alleys.
***
The summer terrace of ‘The Hearth’ buzzed with voices. Laughter, twinkling lights, potted roses—all blurred into a radiant whirl. I reached for my phone to call her when I spotted her wave. She sat alone, no friend in sight. My heart leapt. I strode over, forcing confidence, though inside, I was adrift.
“Quite the save back there,” Emily said, smiling as I approached.
“I panicked,” I admitted. “But standing still wasn’t an option.”
I grinned, sinking into a wicker chair draped with a tartan blanket. Spring clung stubbornly, the nearby fountain’s mist a whispered chill.
I confessed I’d mixed up cafés—’The Bard’ and ‘The Quill’—my brain latching onto names like driftwood. She laughed but needled me about the blonde remark. I didn’t argue.
We talked for an hour, maybe more. Time dissolved. Something was different. I didn’t study her figure or imagine anything untoward. With her, it was effortless, like chatting with my oldest mate Ben.
The waiter appeared. “Anything else?”
Then it happened.
“Could we get a beer?” Emily asked, a daring glint in her eye. “And some crisps.”
My mind shouted: *Crisps!*
“Two beers,” I added swiftly—commit now, reckon later. “And extra crisps.”
The magic frayed. “What next?” I wondered, thoughts tugging me from the moment. The connection waned.
Only Ben could salvage this. I grabbed my phone, texting: *Emergency! At ‘The Hearth.’ With a girl, two beers, and no cash.*
The waiter returned with bottles, glasses, a bowl of crisps. A busker’s guitar strummed nearby, drawing her gaze. She checked her phone, smiling softly at the screen.
My chest clenched. *That’s the smile women reserve for other men.* “Is she taken?”
“Excuse me a moment,” she said, rising.
*If it’s her friend, why leave?* Panic surged. I checked my messages—and froze. I’d texted Emily, not Ben.
The crowd’s murmur, the fountain, the music—all vanished. *What have I done?*
Then her voice:
“Relax. My treat tonight. But you owe me—double, since it’s a blonde’s debt. Agreed?”
I looked up. She stood there, grinning, her eyes alight.
And so I fell into the loveliest debt of my life. She never called it in. Some debts, I’ve learned, aren’t settled here—or by us. Now I’m certain: that pickpocket was no thief. They were angels. Hers, perhaps.