Dear Readers!
My previous story (which still I continue on my blog ) welcomed very enthusiastically. I hope that you will like it also. I will try to write and publish on an ongoing basis, if you express the wish:)
London, 1985
Outside rained cats and dogs. Somewhere beyond the heavy, rain clouds, the sun shyly from behind the horizon wyłaniało. On the outside was stifling, the air was damp and heavy. Transitive men execrates slippery sidewalks and wet a woman with a broken heel utykały in hand. The most gray and dreary area of \u200b\u200bLondon, in addition to its "nieuroku", was known primarily for its beautiful, modest buildings that lack of sunshine lit up a bit in this city. Going that way, for a moment it might seem that it is in France, soothing scent of fresh pastries wabił every passerby to spend even a minute in the cafe, spóźniając finally get to work. Resisted the temptation to everyone - even Cassandra Parker. ***
snow-white curtains with a fast swing included in the frame of the window. Soon Then, the speakers of a small radio announcer excitedly with a hint of pride in his voice gave that number one the charts once again proved the song " Help! "Beatles. Cassandra smiled to himself. The Beatles always be able to support it, and now especially needed help, after all, was late for work. Upinając careless hair in bun, wondering whether this time again, undermine its resolve to change the menu, ordering the same set in a cafe. ***
- Hello, Cass! - In this gray world were only two persons who have the same annoying way they called Cassandra - Cass. One of them was Peter - a journalist, working in the same editorial board, as she did. Many times I wondered why he loves to play tricks of fate that joined together two mismatched. This is contrary to the problem turned out to be a duo Peter darzący Cassandra hot feeling. The second of these unfortunate people was Eleanor - the owner made famous cafe " Nothing special." Was said that Eleanor specifically named as a cafe, to recall her full conflicting thoughts of men. It worked. Cassandra smiled towards the smiling owner. Took place in a dark corner of the room. The walls are painted meadows, which proudly piled up golden sunflowers. Right on the counter, on a small platform was a wooden stool on which day in the evening he played the guitar a young boy with ambition and zadatkami the star.
- What time?
- Better not to tempt fate - she muttered, routinely reviewing the card. "What I always consisted of fresh croissant, cherry jam and hot coffee. Quickly, like when those idiotic competitions for food on time, all the other customers ordered dishes absorbs cafes, while Cassandra stoically sipping a hot beverage. The air was the smell of ground coffee and butter croissants. Colorful prairie appearing on the walls meant that everyone who entered the cafe, at the moment forget about the gloomy weather outside. To tell the truth so that's why Cassandra liked this place - even for a few minutes before work could forget about the tedious reality. In fact, she liked London, This city has always intrigued her, she loved to walk on the Thames - to sit under a tree, watch the boats coming and hear the sound of water. Most of the articles are produced in this place - the beautifully located and a moody and mysterious Thames. She packed her belongings, Eleanor announced that he would pay next time, and throwing a short "hello" was leaving, she went to work. ***
- Who this time? McCartney? - Peter was based on the monitor of her computer trying to start a discussion, but in fact ran a monologue, after all, Cassandra engulfed work on another article. Very often, when I returned from the editorial board, wondered why she likes this job. She could not believe that doing what he loves, and yet it was so. Each time, work on new material consumed her so much that she took upon himself any further articles on this subject.
- Kowalski! - The hall resounded to the sound of heavy steps - Doe!
Peter jumped up and sat down at the speed of light in his job. The owner leaned low voice head through the door, smiled and walked through the doorway. Peter has released the air with a whistle.
- This guy annoys me - he grimaced.
- midlife crisis - Cassandra giggled. Peter muttered something under his breath and went back to routine. Miss Parker also succumbed to the keyboard, the next sentence klecąc article. Her slender fingers
deftly moved around the keyboard constructing the complete text. Corner of his eye glancing at Peter, who wrote something in a notebook, and certainly it was not another article. Diary? Perhaps. Is this man, sitting just three feet away had some secrets that zżerały it from the inside? And if so, what could so viciously write in this notebook? Is hiding something against woman with whom he doggedly tried to make an appointment? His brown, not very long hair in a mess piled up in an oval head. He wore a white shirt in dark green, thick frame. Dark jeans rolled up so that I could see his brown boots. Deep ebony eyes for a moment in przystanęły her pupils, and her cheeks at the time of the zaróżowiły. She turned her head, pretending nothing had happened. And yet it happened. ***
Outside forces last rays of the sun kąsały asleep in London, when he finished work of Cassandra. Leaving the office, stood in the doorway the door and glanced at the position of his work. On the desk lay a card with the writings of the articles. Black computer keyboard cried for vengeance because of the accidental pouring coffee on it, and imploring gaze monitor asked for wiping the screen. Less than three meters away, the view of Peter, everything was arranged at the edge, until it hurts. The noise of his machine tore Cassandra from brooding. Will Peter was still at work? Or maybe forgot to turn off the computer? Parker was a very insightful person, not to approach and explore space. She was sure that Peter has long sitting at home, after all, was never his thing. Will was so perceptive enough, that did not notice him when he left the job? Brown caught his attention with a yellow notebook paper, each politely lying on the desk, on which today so Dumała. Without thinking, she opened notebook. Hoping to read the innermost thoughts wertowała notebook. At the top of each page, the title could be seen one word from which flowed a river of words. Calligraphic handwriting meant that almost every word hung in the air behind him, carrying a slight smell of ink. Turning the page, she noticed that it reads something more personal than the entries in the diary. These were the songs of Peter.
- You're careless - she felt someone's breath on his neck, and after a while to recognize this low, mysterious voice.
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