Sonorous © 2006

A ridiculous foray into fan fiction. It's really just two overbearing exes sitting in a Paris cafe, one ogling Alan Rickman while the other encourages said ogling.

The truly odd thing is that I could see this actually happening. The dialogue could happen verbatim. Well, not now, since he and I no longer speak. But a few years ago... yes. Oh, most definitely, yes.

Begun February 19, 2006 * Unfinished, obviously.

Sonorous

I agreed to take on Brian’s challenge. I’d never been outside of our native land, and least of all by invitation of one I’d sworn my heart off fifteen years earlier. Brian and I had our ups and downs, from our first meeting at college with two years in age separating us, to the turbulent years of first love that followed. Things had never truly been resolved in my own head and heart, though we had both indeed moved on in our lives, and this first meeting in five years still left me feeling more than a little anxious. For our first meeting in five years to occur in the City of Lights, Paris, seemed another wrench thrown in to test my will. I was determined not to allow myself to become distressed. It was distressing enough for me to be learning to fly again in a post-9/11 world.

He had been staying in Paris to work on a three-month contract for coding, troubleshooting and beta-testing a prototype PC-based gaming system, and as the period was winding down, he thought it might make for an interesting distraction to invite me out to visit, all expenses paid.

I had been in sore need of a vacation, since my life back in the States was beginning to wear on all of my senses, common and otherwise, and I definitely welcomed a change of scenery. My workplace was again in near-ruins, and my personal life seemed to be crumbling into a state of nonexistence. Rather than deal with any of the impending problems that loomed, I instead gave myself permission to run away like a petulant child, to bury my head like a transcontinental ostrich in the sands of some foreign, faraway shores.

It sounded like a good idea at the time.

After surviving my ten-hour flight to London and brief hop over into Paris, white-knuckled with a side of acid reflux, Brian met me at the airport and greeted me with kindness and warmth. Rather than give in to further confusion, I was simply grateful to feel nothing more than a grand reunion between old friends. We were both now in our mid-thirties, and it would be foolish to dredge up silly behaviors of an equally-foolish period that took place in our mid-twenties.

We took a quick taxi ride back to his apartment, located in the Montmartre section of the city, where I basically dumped my bags, took a desperately-needed bathroom break and shower, after which we came to the logical conclusion that food and drink were in order. And not necessarily in that order.

Having been situated in the city for three months, Brian now officially considered himself a local, and knew all the nightspots, the clubs, the overall scene, as it were. I had no interest in where the Parisian goth kids hung out, nor did I much care about the music scene in general. I wanted to find a nice quiet café where I could have a glass of French wine, a real French croissant, a real café au lait, and perhaps a real French meal. If not a café, then a classy restaurant. Price was no object, right? After all, he was paying.

We happened upon a somewhat dark but chic-looking place. Brian commented that he’d never been in, as his work pretty much kept him inside an office during the daylight hours. His evenings were mostly spent in nightclubs and bars, and his meals were often taken on the run, in between cafés. So together we decided to be adventurous, and not act like ignorant, cheapskate Americains if the prices were outrageous. It was Paris, for Chrissakes. How often did I get to experience this?

After being given the once-over by a rather stereotypically snotty-looking maître-d, we were led to a table for two, and I was rather impressed by Brian’s albeit stilted command of the language after being immersed for only a few months. Here I had seven years of French under my belt, and I still was unable to say much more than “too much salt” or “where is the bathroom?”  I always prided myself on the fact that my eleventh grade French teacher told me I had near-perfect pronunciation—even if I couldn’t translate to save my life. Still, in Brian’s case, I guess it was better to actually know what you were saying than to say it like a native.

We sat across from one another, years melting away after a glass or two of Bordeaux. When only a few moments had passed, we found that we were chatting and laughing, now adults, in one of the most amazing cities on the planet. The sun had already set on the Seine, and we were clinking glasses and smiling like the oldest of friends. It was… well, it was just damned nice. I felt as if a world of regret had been lifted from my shoulders. It felt as if I had turned a real corner for the first time in my life, and there was actually light at the end of the tunnel. Or Chunnel, as it were.

Brian wore his typically bemused expression when regarding me. “It’s nice to see you smile, Heather,” he said. “I really, really miss that.”

“You miss my smile.” I said it more as a statement than a question, and nearly followed it with an out-loud laugh.

“Yes.”

“Tell me something,” I said, taking another sip of wine. “When was the last time you saw me smile that I wasn’t holding a drink in my hand?”  A pause. “A-ha. Huh? Hm? Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

“I’ve seen you smile. In rare, rare moments. When you got a particularly clever idea in your head. Or a naughty thought. I’ve seen you smile. Your eyes would gleam, and the corners of your mouth would start to curl up, sort of like the Grinch—”

“Oh, now there’s a compliment. The Grinch.”

“—and then it would curl into a completely cute Tori smirk.”

“Oh. Well, Tori. That’s a different… story.” I hated to rhyme.

“And I’d just want to jump on you.”

Oh, here we go.

“Right.”  I sort of sank back into my chair, as if forcing a physical, though invisible, distance between us. He realized he’d probably crossed a line with me. I was Heather, after all, prude supreme, forever and always in his book. “Whatever. Moving on,” I said.

“Anyway. I have seen you smile. And I love to see you smiling now, after all the time that’s passed. No matter what’s happened, or not happened, between us. After all these years. I’m happy to see you smiling now, here, with me.”

I raised my glass, and he raised his. We clinked. Now we were both smiling.

Plates of duck and rosemary roasted potatoes arrived in the middle of a heated discussion over the virtues of several Atari games we had loved as children, closely followed by the fate of several original STAR WARS comic books I had mailed to him years ago, in a huff.

“What do you mean you don’t know what you did with them?” I asked, desperately trying to keep my voice down, but failing miserably.

“I mean, I have no idea where they went. They weren’t in mint condition, Heather…”

“I know that! It’s not like they were shrink-wrapped and kept in plastic! I read them, Brian! I was a kid, and I read them. And in my complete and utter foolishness, I just decided that maybe you would like them, so I stupidly mailed them to you. A few years ago, I got to wondering about them, y’know, kind of, sort of wishing I hadn’t sent them to you, and…”

“And you want them back.”

“I didn’t say that. I can’t even remember the stories…”

“So why do you—”

“There was a green guy.”

“Excuse me?”

“A green guy.” I was on glass number twelve, I believe. The duck was melting in my mouth. I don’t remember ever liking rosemary, but I did now.

“A green guy,” he repeated.

“He was a green rabbit guy. Named Jack. He liked to kick people.” I dropped my knife on the floor.

“Okay…”

“Anyway, I kind of thought I’d like to read them again,” I said, poking around under the table in search of the missing utensil. “You know. If you still, like, had them around.”

“I have no idea if I still have them around. Heather, I still have boxes that I never unpacked from when I first moved to Austin.”

“Great. Well… that’s just great.” I sat up, knife in hand.

“Sorry…”

“So you’re basically saying that you don’t even know if you still have them or not.”

“I assume I have them somewhere. They weren’t exactly in mint condition that I could have sold them back in Pittsburgh, like at Time Tunnel or anything…”

My blood started to boil.

“I didn’t give them to you so that you could sell them… I know they weren’t in mint condition…”

The waiter returned to our table with another bottle of wine, and to see how our meal was. Brian wordlessly gave the indication that everything was peachy keen, so that the waiter would not linger long at the heated, yet foolish, scene that was taking place. He poured me a fresh glass.

“Heather, I—”
 

“Quit trying to shut me up. Now you’re just plying me with more wine to shut me up, or make me all passive and shit.”  I took the glass and drained it halfway. My, but that was fine wine.

“This is fine wine.” He smirked back at me, clearly frustrated and still amused at the same time by my antics. The more things changed, the more they indeed stayed the same.

“Okay, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I don’t give a rat’s ass about those stupid comic books. I was only wondering. That’s all. That’s it. I’ll shut up about it now. It’s not worth it. It’s just stupid. Sorry.”  I noticed that his expression has gone from smirking to passive. Passive for all of ten or fifteen seconds. He was clearly watching someone behind me. Probably just another chick with big tits, I figured. Get over it.  I took another bite of the meal, stirring a potato across my plate, and looked up at him. Now his passive expression had moved on to bemusement. Bemusement segued into something indescribable. More along the lines of the`cat that ate the canary. Something that could have been subtitled “Oh, this is going to be interesting.”

“Don’t look now,” he said, leaning forward to take a bite of his duck dish, “But Snape has entered the building.”

“Snake? Snake who?” I asked, taking another sip of wine.

“Not ‘Snake’, you boob. Snape.”    

Empty fork was now stuck in mid-air between plate and my open mouth.

“Shnape?” Mouth was full of food. 

“Yes, as in Severus. As in, Hermione’s lecherous lover and potions master of a thousand fanfics. Snape.”

“You mean… Alan Rickman?” This came out as “You mee… Arrah Rickmuh?” as my mouth was full of duck.

Brian’s grin curled the very corners of his mouth, as he clearly delighted in my present horror.

“Yes.”

I took about two tentative chews, and finally a deep swallow. I set my fork down along on my plate’s edge. I then picked up my glass, tipped it to my lips, and drank. Deeply. I emptied the glass without breath. Brian started to laugh behind his curled fingers. 

“If you are fucking with me—”

“I swear. I’m not…” he continued to laugh.

“I mean, you’re really sick if you think that’s funny.”

“Heather. Listen to me. I’m not fucking with you. He just walked in. I don’t know who he’s with. But he’s being seated two tables away. Behind you.”

Now was as good a time as any to pick up my knife from the floor. Brian kicked me under the table as I began my descent.

“What in the fuck, Brian—”

“Heather. Sit up. You’re going to fall out of your chair. Leave the knife alone.”

“But I need to get a look—”

“No, you don’t. I’m telling you. Do you trust me?”

I raised an eyebrow while narrowing the other. 

“Seriously. When have I lied to you?”

He had a point. Sort of.

*************************************************

“What are we arguing about?” I asked weakly, the wine starting to go to my head, along with the blood as I was still negotiating the space halfway between the tabletop and the floor.

“Well, partly about what you’re planning on doing with that butter knife once you retrieve it from the floor. Oh, and how you’re desperately afraid that you are going to make a complete arse of yourself in front of Mister Alan Rickman.”

He knew me too well. I sat up, pushing a stray strand of hair out of my mouth. 

“Brian. It’s Alan Rickman. Alan Bloody Rickman,” I said in a stage-whisper.

“Yes. I know. I told you,” he gloated. Brian was one of the only people I knew who could gloat without out-and-out gloating. It only pissed me off even more. My palms began to sweat. I dropped the knife onto the salad plate beside my glass.

This was serious. This was a moment. This kind of transcended any of the silly childish madness that had dominated our earlier discussion regarding misplaced comic books. Definitely a moment. A moment that had been mulled for years in my sad little head, crammed into a corner currently brimming with other likewise delectable “what-ifs.” Only I never, ever, ever imagined that it would escape that corner, let alone emerge outside of my head to see the light of day. Or night.  

Naturally, I was in a position that did not give me a good vantage point. I now had to rely on Brian, who was no doubt going to yank my chain for the remainder of the evening, simply because he could. This was no time for games. This was serious.

“Brian. I can’t turn around, can I? I can’t turn around without the appearance of gawking.”

“You have every right to turn around in your chair. It’s not a Nazi state, you know.”

“You’re not funny. You’re not funny at all. I don’t want to turn around and give the ol’ deer-in-the-headlights look…”

“Yeah, that’s not one of your better looks. It’s cute, but it’s probably not what you’re going for here.”

I wanted to take my now-dirty bread knife and stuff it in his jugular at that point. Then I would be alone but for a corpse at my table, and still no better off with regards as to how I might look at Mister Rickman without causing a scene. The presence of a corpse at my table might make creating a scene a foregone conclusion at that point. And I wasn’t really a violent person. Much.

“I’m getting the feeling that any and all chances I may have had with you here in Paris are now officially null and void?”

“What?” Palms were still sweaty. Pits were following suit. By the feel of things, a beaded sweat mustache was not far behind to complete the ensemble of sheer panic.

“Meaning that I assume your single mission at this point in time is to find a way to make Mister Alan Bloody Rickman fall desperately, madly, and completely in lust with you.”

“Huh?” Hands were very clammy. I took another sip of wine, and like a gentleman, he refilled my glass.

“Exactly.”  He refilled his own glass and drank deeply. Panic was indeed rising in my throat. I felt a choking sensation. “Heather. Get it together. It’s not a big deal.”

He was right. Oddly enough, his words rang completely true in that moment. The shaking ceased. The sweating stopped. The clamminess lingered, but nothing that rubbing two palms together couldn’t combat.

He was absolutely right.

A very strange sense of calm seemed to wash over me. Maybe it was the effect of that last sip of wine. Or the culmination of the thirty-five glasses that preceded it.

I turned and looked over my shoulder in the general direction that Brian had been watching. And sure enough, a mere two tables away, Alan Rickman was seated, perusing a menu. He appeared to be alone.

“Jesus,” I whispered, turning back to our table.

“I’ve heard he’s pretty booked at the moment. Would you settle for me at present?” I narrowed my eyes at Brian. He grinned. Clearly, he was so loving this. “Eat your dinner. He’s not going anywhere. You have time to plot your attack.”

“Attack?”

“Just eat. We have all the time in the world. We’re in Paris. An object of pent-up lust is seated ten yards away from you, without a female companion for the evening, from the look of it. You’re eating duck in Paris. Shut up and enjoy the delirious insanity of the moment.” 

He had a point. Several.

“Tell you what. Continue on as we were. Eat your duck. Drink some wine. Have some more wine. Enjoy the mood. Talk to me. I’ll be the eyes in the back of your head. I’ll give you an immediate status report should he reach down to remove a piece of lint from his jacket, or a hair from his soup.”

I grinned lopsidedly.

“There’s my girl.”  He grinned back, lifting his glass in a toast. “To… well, I’d say ‘best-laid plans,’ but somehow that just sounds a little too ironic… and jumping the gun a bit…”  I cracked a smile, raising my glass. We clinked.

Brian kept his part of the bargain. He let me order whatever I wanted, no matter how indulgent, and he kept me apprised of any shift in Mister Rickman’s chair. His solo status had not changed, right up to the point that our cleaned plates, now sans duck, were taken away.  I couldn’t stand not being able to see the action. Or lack thereof. It was driving me crazy.

“Heather, I swear, he’s completely alone. No cell phone calls, nothing. He’s been totally silent the entire time. Probably just enjoying a moment’s peace. I assume it can get pretty tiresome with fifteen year-old goth girls chasing you down alleyways shrieking ‘Fuck me, Snape…’ though actually, I can’t imagine.”

“Poor guy,” I said, sadly, taking the final sip from the bottom of my glass. “I can’t imagine. I really can’t. It’s moments like this that I stop and feel so guilty for even feeling the way that I do. Like, I shouldn’t feel this way.”

“Why not?”

“I just mean, in reality, no, I would never go running up the street after him, screaming, or stalking him to a hotel, or hovering in the shadows overnight just so I could get a glimpse of him… goddammit, that is crazy. I’d like to think that I care a little more than that.”

“Well, you have showed considerable restraint since he walked in. You haven’t once gotten up, sauntered over to his table, slithered under it and offered to provide services best rendered in a particular red-light district only a block from here—”

I shot him another drop dead or I’ll pick up the butter knife look.

*************************************************

It was imperative that the evening take a much-needed turn, a serious turn, or else this farce would be nothing more than… well, farce.

I had indeed indulged in a lot of wine, and much rich food. The thought of beckoning chocolate seemed to buy me some more time to strategize my next move. Next move? I hadn’t moved yet. 

“Dessert? Are you insane? Where do you plan to put it?”

“Something sinful and chocolate. And yes, with coffee.”

“So you’ll be horny and caffeinated. Right-o. Gotcha,” he said. “What a glorious combination. And what a lucky man, our man Rickman.” He then ordered our desserts in his delightfully broken French accent. “Which is just as well. Older guys tend to be minutemen, if you know what I mean. That is, if he hasn’t already purchased stock in Viagra—” 

I arched an eyebrow at him, and apparently the look was disarming enough to stop him in mid-sentence. “The guy is sixty, Heather.” I continued the glare, and a mini-truce was called, for the moment.

Caffeine was probably the last thing on the planet that I needed in my system, but the two bottles of wine and chocolate-on-the-way were probably just as damaging. It was all relative.

I looked over my shoulder again. “What’s he drinking?” I asked. “Did you happen to notice?”

“Hm… can’t really see from here… looked to be some sort of red wine… Bordeaux rocks,” he crooned, picking up his glass.

“Yes, dear, Bordeaux rocks. Listen.” I turned back to face him. “Tell me if this sounds wildly stupid.”

He grinned.

“I’m serious. You have to do this for me. A test-run.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Let’s have it.”    

“But you really have to give me the input, here. I have to know if this is just a completely moronic thing to do.”

“Go for it, babe. I’m listening.”

I took a deep breath.

“Find out from the waiter what he’s having. What he’s drinking.”

“Oh…kay?” he said quizzically.

“Just follow me here. Hear me out.”

“All ears, babe. Bring it on.”

“Find out what he’s drinking. Then when his waiter returns to the table to see if he needs another glass of whatever-it-is… if Rickman says ‘yes,’ then have the waiter bring him another glass of whatever-it-is, and once he’s brought it to him, then have him tell Rickman ‘it’s from the lady at that table’…”

Brian was silent.

“What.” I sat stock-still, waiting for his response.

“That’s your brilliant plan?”

“You don’t get it.”

“Explain, then. Maybe I’m missing one of the more subtle elements or something. Like the part when you’re supposed to bury your face in his crotch while he’s ordering coffee.”

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “No, you don’t get it. I knew you wouldn’t.” I wiped my mouth with my napkin.

“What? What’s to get?” he said, laughing.

“No.”  I shook my head, and started kneading the cloth napkin in both hands in my lap. “No, you don’t get it, and how could you... You, who could walk up to anyone, anywhere, and not give a flying fuck what they think...”

“Huh?”

“I’m trying to think from every angle, here. Okay? Every angle, Brian.”

“I don’t—” 

“Every angle.” I repeated, taking a deep breath. “See, if I go sauntering over there, I’m just a giddy silly fan-girl, and I’ll forget my own name. Hell, I’ll forget his name, let alone that I’d wanted something as stupid as an autograph. Or a photo. Or something equally inane. Not only that, I will then fall under the category of not only obnoxious, but selfish fan by interrupting a meal that he’s trying to have alone. I want none of that. See?” 

Brian was silent as I continued my explanation, which was probably appearing to be more of a meltdown rant than anything. “So I can’t just walk over and say ‘Duh, I’m a really big fan of yours, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but could you scribble your name on this scrap of tissue I’ve fished out of the bottom of my purse, and while you’re doing that, could I get you to pose for a photo, I’ve got my camera in my bag…’ No. I’m not stooping to that level. It’s so horrible.”

“Okay…”

“But then there’s the old sleazy ‘hey, buy ya a drink, buddy?’ angle that I really want no part of. Again, it’s obnoxious. It’s presumptuous. I mean, think about it: what if you’re sitting there, in a restaurant, or a bar, just minding your own business, having a drink, and then someone just sends a drink over to you. Out of the blue. You have no idea who this person is, and more than likely, this person hasn’t the faintest clue who you are, either. And they don’t even bother to find out if you’re on your first drink, or if you’re on your fifth—in which case, maybe you really don’t want another drink. Or maybe you just started your first one, and you’re savoring it, and enjoying your alone-time. To just send over a drink, and then give you this wink and wave is so cheesy and stupid. Then you feel like, oh Christ, I’ve got to play the good Hollywood star role, I’ve got to graciously take it, smile, maybe hold it up like ‘cheers,’ then drink it, even if you don’t really want it, and just pretend like you’re having the time of your life…”

“I think you think too much.”

“How could I not? Because no matter what I wind up doing, you know it’ll be the wrong thing… story of my life…”  I said miserably.

“Heather, you’re really thinking too much.” He paused. “But...”

“But?”

“But in your defense, I do believe that you’re much more considerate than most people would be. No one could ever accuse you of being insincere.” He paused again. “And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Really?”  

“Shows you’re thinking of him as something other than Hot Drama Man-Slave Fuck-Beast. You can think of him like that later, of course, once you’ve gotten him shit-faced and shag-ready.”

I took a sip of my coffee, and nearly spit it across the table.

“ ‘Shit-faced and shag-ready’?” I repeated incredulously. He was unfazed.

“Yeah, you know. Once in awhile I coin a brilliant phrase.”

My hormones were raging. But I was marvelously keeping them in check.

“Oh, quit with the act.”

“Act? What act?”

“Quit acting like you’re in love with his MIND. His CV of brilliant academia, his extensive knowledge of theatre. You know you want to jump on him, right here in the middle of this restaurant. Admit it.”

“I…”

“You know you want to. Just admit it. Drop the coy shit. You’re hot for him. Go over there and tell him.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“YOU’RE unbelievable if you DON’T. At this point, Heather, if you were a guy, I’d call you a pussy.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean, it’s almost refreshing. For all the sexually blatant people that I hang about, it’s almost fun to be with such a completely prudish goody two-shoes like you.” 

“Reverse psychology doesn’t work with me, darling. It never has.”

“Fine. Be a spineless twat, then. I don’t care. I’m enjoying this, actually. It’s quite absurdly humorous from this vantage point.”

“Glad to be so entertaining.”

“Oh Christ, Heather, why don’t I just walk over there and TELL Mister Rickman you want to snog him senseless, and then you can show him your admirable talents in the sword-swallowing arena…”

“You shut up. You shut up NOW,” I growled, looking anxiously over my shoulder again. Alan Rickman appeared to be reading something, as he paused to take a sip of wine. Clearly, he hadn’t heard any of this exchange.

“Oh, I am loving this. Yes. You’re right. There are so many wonderful angles from which to explore this predicament. Hm.”

“Shut up. Just shut up,” I pleaded, holding my fork poised over a glorious slice of moist chocolate cake, drizzled in chocolate sauce, oozing warm raspberry compote. I couldn’t even think about chocolate at a time like this.

“Let’s see. ‘Mister Rickman, sir. This is Heather. She is a mute nymphomaniac. She doesn’t make a sound, but then, who really wants a girl who talks and eats with her mouth full…’ ”

“Shut it, I swear, Brian, or I will take this fork—”

“…or perhaps, ‘Ah, yes, Mister Rickman, brilliant job in Robin Hood and Dogma. Your Snape is masterful. Anyway, tonight is your lucky night. This is Heather. Give her your hotel key, and she’ll show you the finest room service your accommodations have ever afforded its guests.’ ”

“Ohmigod, cut it the fuck OUT, Brian…”

“ ‘And by the way, she’s asked if your wand is in need of polishing…’ ”

“Ohmigooooood, shut UP, shut UP, shut UP…” I slapped him on the arm from across the table several times.

He was laughing, covering his mouth with one hand, trying hard to control himself. My flustered reaction was only feeding the fire.

“Oh god… okay…” I’d given one of my standard sad-eyed, pouty-lipped, on-the-verge-of-sniffling looks, and he couldn’t take it. Disarmed. For the moment. “Come on… I’ll stop… it’s just, you’re being an idiot. The guy is a guy. You’ve had the hots for him what, like, ten years?”

“Eleven,” I mumbled. Yes, I’d seen Sense & Sensibility in 1995, at a particularly vulnerable and heart-broken time in my life, and I had cried my eyes out. Granted, I had been on some heavy painkillers at the time, but my emotions had been very near the surface of my scarred heart’s tender tissue, and I don’t think they needed the aid of drugs to be brought out into the open, with a complete ensemble of tears.   

“Right, eleven. How completely stupid of me.”

“So?” I asked, grumpily, playing with my cake.

“So, you’ve been lusting after this movie star for over a decade. No doubt, for longer than all the little fan-girls out there combined. You’ve got seniority.”

“Yeah. Seniority.” I took a bite of cake. It was sinful.

“See? They were all still pissing in their diapers while you were lusting after him.”

“Yeah…” Another bite of cake.

“They don’t have the unique rights to him that you do.”

“Yeah..?”

“So..? What are you gonna do about it?”

“Uh… walk over to his table and plant a flag in his ass, claiming the territory of Rickmania in the name of The Heatherland?”

“THERE’S my girl!” he cheered, in a whisper.

“Right.” I took another bite of the evil chocolate cake. My cheeks were starting to flame slightly.

“You’re blushing furiously, m’dear,” he mused.

“What the fuck did they put in this cake?” I asked. “It’s like… it’s like, sex on a plate.” I started laughing uncontrollably. I remembered the last time Brian and I had shared a dinner like this, almost six years earlier.  I’d taken a bite of his pan-seared tuna, and nearly slid out of my chair, and called it “sex on a plate.” History always had an odd way of repeating itself.

“Chocolate is supposedly an aphrodisiac, Love.”

“Shit. Just what I need right now.”

“From the looks of it, yeah, that’s exactly what you need right now.”

“So, you never answered my question,” I said, taking a sip of coffee, which was strong and perfect.

“About the drink thing? Why not. I’ve gotten you this far.” He motioned to our waiter, and related the plan to him, again in broken French. To my great surprise (and wondrous delight) the waiter didn’t seem put-off in the least. I watched as he caught the attention of the waiter who served Mister Rickman, and the two of them chattered back and forth, en Français, of course, exchanging glances in my direction and laughing amongst themselves. Dammit, how I wished right then that I’d paid attention during all those years of French class…

My stomach was in knots, at this point. I was starting to feel light-headed.

“You all right? Hey.” Brian reached across the table and put his hand on mine. “You okay? It’ll be fine.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and the panic passed. Slightly.

“I’m just all of a sudden feeling like a chicken-shit right now,” I said. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“What’s to do? I’ll cover for you. Fuck, I’m paying for the entire meal as it is. Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what’s to ‘go through with’? Nothing’s happened yet, darlin’. He’s not going to turn down a complimentary glass of wine. Not from you.”

I felt the heat spread across my face again.

“You’re looking like a beet again.”

I frantically reached for my bag. “Just how gauche would it be for me to pull out a mirror at this point?” My manners were always in question, no matter where I was.

“I… dunno..?” He shrugged. “I can’t see the harm in looking. Incidentally, you look fine. I’m sure you’ll look ravishing to Mister Rickman. Especially with those freshly-dyed locks.” He made a growling sound. I smirked. “You look beautiful, Heather. If he can’t see that, well…”

What was I doing? What was the point of all of this, anyhow? 

A few moments had gone past, and I couldn’t bear to turn around in my seat. Brian was watching for me, as if burning a hole through my forehead and directly into Mister Rickman’s table.  “What’s he doing? Has he looked over?”

“Several times,” he mused.

“What???”

“Well, he has. When the waiter asked him if he’d like another glass, he must have responded yes, because then the waiter came back with the bottle and poured another, and then at that point I gathered from the hand motions that the waiter told him you sent it over…” 

Christ.

“So what happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened? He drank it.”

“I mean, what did he do when the waiter told him?”

“He looked over here, nodded to the waiter, said something, and looked over here again. He kind of nodded and smiled.”

“Ohmigod, he did all this, while I had my back to him..???”

“Well, it’s not really like your back is to him, it’s more like your profile—”

“But I didn’t react or respond to his response. Jesus, he must think I’m a stuck-up and completely crazy bitch.”

“I highly doubt that, Heather. He smiled. Kind of grinned that Alan Rickman grin, you know the one I mean, the closed mouth almost kind of a smirk grin…”

I shut my eyes.

“What is he doing now.”

“He’s… eating his dinner, from the look of it. And drinking the glass of wine that I sent over from you.” Brian smiled broadly.

“So this is it.”

“What?” Brian was digging into his own slice of cake.

“This is it.”

“What is ‘it’?”

“The end. I mean, where do I go from here?”

“I told you it wasn’t much of a plan, Heather.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking I might be on the brink of an aneurysm.

“C’mon. What do you think? The possibilities are endless. But you can’t just sit here and stew about it. Think about it. Or don’t think about it. But make your own fate here.”

“Make my own fate?”

“Look. You freaked out earlier this year with all the weird stuff that started happening. How all of a sudden, you felt all drawn to him. You rented a bunch of his movies and had several conniptions. Then your boss casually walks through your office, sees his picture, and relates that ridiculous story about seeing him in 1986 and it being such a sexual experience…”

“Shut up…”

“… and it turns out that it all happened on the man’s BIRTHDAY. So you freaked out over THAT. THEN you just start spiraling down this totally obsessive fan-girl path, devouring everything you can about the guy… you get that autograph in the mail a few months later from his management in London… you freak out some more… then, here you are in France, with me, on a totally unrelated tangent, and while we’re sitting down to a meal in a fine restaurant, who walks into the same fine restaurant, and takes a seat only yards away. Heather, if that’s not some form of fate, and you’re not going to do anything about it but sit here and shit yourself, then you’re being an ass. Do something.”

Then, at that very moment, I didn’t need to do anything but keep breathing.

“Merci pour le vin, Madame.”

Holy fucking mother of god.

I slowly turned my head upwards to see Mister Rickman standing beside me. My mouth hung open slightly. I closed it. I covered it with a smile. It bloomed from the pit of my stomach, and just kept spreading.

I took a deep breath through my nose.

“You’re more than welcome,” I said, still feeling out of breath.

“To what do I owe the delightful gift?” he asked, smiling without smiling.

“I…” I couldn’t think, I couldn’t think, I just could not think… “Consider it a thank-you.”

“A ‘thank you’?”   

“Yes, a thank you.” Oh boy, you’d better make this good. “A thank you for… well…” I looked to Brian. He looked back at me, smiling, as if to say, You’re on your own, babe.

I took another breath, looking at my lap for a moment. “A thank you for all the joy that you bring so many people. Me being just one of them. I love your work.”

He closed his eyes, in that oh-so-Alan-Rickman-way, continuing to smile. “Well, to that, allow me to thank you…”

“Really, I’ve enjoyed your work so much… from Sense & Sensibility on down… you are without a doubt one of the finest actors of our time, and I’m really, really, honored to meet you.”  I stood up from the table. I was no longer in my own body anymore. I reached forward and found his hand. “I’m Heather… G---.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. G---…” His hand was warm. And strong. And big.  He was still smiling, his eyes never leaving mine.

I gestured to Brian. “This is my friend, Brian U---…”

Brian stood, reached forward and shook Mister Rickman’s hand as well, and they nodded to each other. “A very kind gesture, the wine. Thank you.” The man could read the Yellow Pages aloud, and my knees would still turn to jelly. He was bloody brilliant.

“What brings you to Paris?” What a fucking stupid thing to say..? Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“I’m in between projects at the moment… taking a break from the Harry Potter madness, as it were.” He leaned closer. “I told my agent that I needed a bloody long weekend to myself, in the hopes that there would be no press junkets on the horizon ‘til filming’s in the can.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Well, it’s likely best if you can’t,” he said cordially. “As you can probably envision, it’s been unrelenting insanity since 1999.”

I could think of nothing to say. Nothing. Not a word. I was still somewhere on the ceiling, and this body was talking for me.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner, Mister Rickman.”

“Nonsense. I needed to stretch my legs.” He grinned again. “Again, thank you. Perhaps we’ll meet again, if you’re here for the remainder of the weekend.”

Did he really say that? I might have imagined it. I probably did.

“I… I’m here through Sunday. We’re going back Sunday, early flight, right?” I asked, looking to Brian.

“Something seriously heinous like 5:00 a.m.,” said Brian.

“Just got in this morning, myself.” He touched my hand again. “It was very nice meeting you, Ms. G---. Mister…” he arched an eyebrow at Brian.

“U---” he said.

“Mister U---.” The last syllables rolled from his tongue like flakes of mica. He shook Brian’s hand, and gave a nod to us, then returned to his table.

Brian had returned to his chair. I was still standing.

“Heather. Sit down. The man is back at his table now,” he said, taking another bite of chocolate cake from behind a shit-eating grin.

I sat down, shakily.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

I stared blankly.

“I mean, you didn’t jump on him as I would have liked, but you handled it quite nicely. Well done.” Another forkful of cake.

I continued to stare.

“He’s looked over here twice now, you know.”

“What?”

“I said he’s looked over here twice now.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything, dear. I’m reporting, as I’d promised. He looked over here, saw that you weren’t looking in his direction, looked back down at his plate, took another sip of wine, seemed to kind of stare ahead, then looked over here again.”

I shuddered at the mere thought.

“I’d say, if ever you’ve cast a spell, you did it just then.”

“Spell?”

“The man was smitten. He wanted desperately to drag you away with him, not unlike a caveman.”

“You,” I said, pointing at him with my fork, “are cruel.”

“Not cruel, babe. Honest. You didn’t see it?” He paused. “No, of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“Spell,” I grumbled. “Right.”

“Believe what you want. I know what I saw. And he’s looking over here again, in case you’re interested.”