Three weeks now, and Freya has not heard anything from Henry. She was more disappointed about this than I thought she would be—more than she thought, too. She told herself not to expect anything from him, as it was just a summer fling, and they made no promises to one another. But she did like him a great deal, and not just because of the physical attraction they shared. And she and I both thought that he liked her, too.
Sometimes things don’t quite work out the way you expect. That is life in this imperfect world. And it seems that Freya has found a good way to move on, although I might not have advised it myself. You see, tonight she had a date.
His name is Archer, and he is a friend of a friend of a friend. Apparently they were directed towards one another because their friends believe their names are similarly unique. Freya exchanged a few texts with him and was intrigued, so she agreed to meet him at his “gig.”
I didn’t know what that word meant until we arrived at the café and spotted the object of our attention on a small stage, guitar in his lap. He was singing a soft, lovely song into a microphone, about rolling the dice and the time being wrong for lovers. I wasn’t certain that was appropriate, however, for he recognized Freya the moment she walked in, and his eyes followed her with interest.
Freya was pleased, as well. He is not quite as tall as she is, though his springy curls give him an extra inch or two. His eyes are dark and his smile is quick and his aura is soft, and I think he might be a very good contrast for Freya.
Archer sang two more songs after Freya arrived, and then he thanked his audience and said, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a beautiful redhead waiting for me. I’ll be back next week and hopefully much happier, so stay tuned. Thanks.”
And in the midst of gentle laughter and applause, he stepped down from the stage, put his guitar in its case, and crossed the room to join Freya at her table.
“Beautiful music and a sweet compliment,” she said. “A good start.”
“Well, thanks, I try,” he said. “Nice to officially meet you, Freya. Wow. Luke told me your hair was red, but he didn’t say how red.”
“Too much?” she asked.
“No, it suits you.”
“Good, because it’s natural, so not much I could or would do about it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Amused by his manner, Freya leaned her chin on her hand. “What about yours? Do you have to do anything to it to make it do that?”
“Oh, this,” he sighed, rumpling his hair and making, apparently, no difference to the mess of curls. “No, on the contrary, I’ve tried everything I could to make it stop. It’s a hopeless case, though, and I’ve got better uses for my money and time.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “So—the music is not your career? Did I understand that correctly?”
“Well, that depends on how you define the word ‘career’,” he said. “If you mean is music the reason I get out of bed in the morning, then yes. But it doesn’t pay the bills, not yet and maybe not ever. No, I’m a nurse.”
“Oh, cool. Where do you work?”
They chatted for a while, filling in the gaps that happen with conversations by text. I didn’t pay much attention to what was said—I was more interested in the way their auras came together, the way the two of them seemed to settle into one another. Archer has a very restful soul, despite his quick mind and words, and Freya could sense that. She liked him very much.
I think that he could be very good for her. As yet there is no spark, but that could come with time, and after all that may not be what Freya wants right now, having just come from a very pyrotechnic—and unsuccessful—start with Henry. So we shall see. For now, it is enough that Freya is happy—and has a second date next weekend.