Sea Urchin

These meetings were the by far one of the most dreadful part of my job. Reasonable to assume that their tedious and dream-crushing nature was why they ended up on my schedule in the first place, being the lowest on the proverbial food chain. No one wanted to be the one who had to tell a hopeful and perfectly lovely, middle-aged housewife that her “unique” and “original” cookbook was not as special as she had thought, or the young, college-educated dreamer still paying off the thousands of dollars in student loans that they wasted four years working toward their English degree. No one but Mr. Stapleton that is, he had no problems being a cruel man.

Standing at six feet tall, large, pointy nose, bald with a clean-shaven face to match, and always wearing his signature scowl as if no one could impress him, Stapleton definitely did not come off as a man that was easy to deal with, as a potential writer or as an employee. But he had more important things to do. Like yell at the help when his coffee went cold because he did not drink it fast enough. Apparently, the man has never heard of the basic scientific principles of thermal heat transfer. A commentary of our current public-school system, I suppose.

Today’s meetings were going as they usually did; potential client came in, shaking from their nerves, playing with their hair as they tried to come across as put together as possible, knowing I was the barrier that could stop them from moving any further to talk to someone who had any actual power. Though maybe they were unaware of my standing as the poorly paid, glorified errand girl that I truly was. However, the fact that I conducted these introductory meetings in this particular conference room should have screamed my status loud and clear. It was small, and not just close quarters small but practically closet space small, had storage stacked in the corner, and a withering plant sitting on the windowsill, despite my best efforts to keep it alive. I didn’t exactly have green thumbs.

Well maybe one. It hasn’t died yet.

While the newest victim of our narrow writing standards told me the lengthy synopsis of their pet project, I zoned out. This happened more than I would like to admit. As much sympathy that I had for the unsuspecting chum that came into our offices, it was hard to stay alert all the time. Fiddling with the key chains on my keys, a Batman, a golden snitch, and a small plastic sea urchin, my favourite, I glanced out to the waiting area, counting how many more people I had left to evaluate this afternoon.

I landed on one man’s face in the on the other side of the office. Squinting I tried to make out the face that seemed almost too familiar. So, this is why people wear their glasses, to be more subtle when spying. Once the face became clear, my heart stopped and fluttered all at once. Almost instantly, I was transported to an almost hidden town in the mountains of San Luis Potosi. To a café that served the most delicious lemonade I had ever tasted, served by the most interesting man I had ever met. Memories of swimming in waterfalls, hiking up mountains, dancing to live music, and late-night rides on the back of his motorcycle, holding him close as the wind whipped by and the curves of the road tested my courage, raced through my mind.

Then a bird flew into the window.

Jumping up from my chair, hand flying to my chest as my heart found its beat once again, I was reminded of reality. I apologized to the equally startled women standing before me. As we chuckled and regained our composure, I asked my next question, “So, which demographics do you expect to reach with your novel?” As she started to explain the well-known, and almost boring, trend of teenage girls responding well to forbidden love and bad boys, my eyes darted back to the waiting room.

He was gone. My head darted quickly to see where he went, panicking that I had lost him once again.

I was not subtle.

I apologized and said I just needed some water and would return shortly. “Can I get you anything?”

Leaving the dreary shoe box I didn’t even get to call my office, I walked down the hall to the waiting area and looked around the corner to the side of the lobby I couldn’t see from the conference room.

Not there.

Quickly turning around to check the other side of the room I ran right into the gentlemen who had evidently came up behind me during my mission, water splashing onto my shirt and dripping onto the floor. I guess I did say I was going to get water. Karma rearing its ugly head for wasting that poor girl’s time, I’m sure. I looked up, ready to apologize for being clumsy, in other words, for being me, but no words came out. I was face to face to him.

To Marco.

“Hey, Loo-Loo.” He said, almost breathless. Before I could manage to respond my co-worker, Millicent, came up behind him.

“Louise, I see you have met Marco,” she chuckled, turning to Marco, “in true, Louise fashion, too. Two left feet this one.” She explained just low enough for only Marco to hear.

Bringing her attention back to me, “He has this magnificent novel. It is this beautiful love story about two people meeting and spending three weeks together, exploring and going on road trips together. There are a few chapters, almost half of his manuscript really, about a road trip to... Shoot, where was it again?” briefly handing the reins to Marco.

He quietly replied “Tamiahua, Verecruz.”, never taking his eyes off of Louise.

“Right, Tamiahua. The couple spends the afternoon hunting sea urchins, something the boy used to do growing up with his grandfather.” She explained with a lazy wave of her hand. “They hunt all afternoon, trying find some but ultimately don’t find any. Then later that night, they are picnicking on the beach and they decide to give it another go, and they find some. Bright purple. Anyways, as they are saying goodbye, he hands her a key chain, sea urchin key chain…” Becoming aware of our stares, she stumbles “D-do you two know each other?”

I chuckle and smile, “You could say that.”