The Captive Smile

She smiled for him and only for him, and he would treasure that forever. His love, his one and only. Their first meeting was banal, as most are. A mixup in coffee orders. There were the usual apologies as they exchanged cups; then she smiled at him and his world shifted.

He started to look for her at the coffee shop, always trying to elicit that same smile, the one meant just for him. It fuelled him, made everything sharper and clearer. On occasion, if he got there before her, he would place and pay for her order. It was a chance to make small talk and to watch her blush when she realized that he had gotten it exactly right—a medium with four creams and half a packet of Splenda. She would thank him and tell him it was unnecessary. He knew that for her it was a small kindness, but for him it was a declaration that he saw her and he would always see her.

When he started running into her in the street, he would comment on how the fates seemed to be throwing them in each other’s path. She smiled at that as well, before wishing him a great day and moving on. One day, while juggling coffee and purse, she dropped the documents she was carrying. Amidst the flying papers and the panicked scrambling to collect them, he seized his chance. He helped gather and collate them back into a semblance of order. Waving off her apologies and objections, he held onto the documents and walked her to work. At the door, she smiled again, stammered her thanks, grabbed the papers and hurried through the doors. He spent the rest of the day in a state of excited bliss.

The next day at the coffee shop he got her order and started to walk with her.

Wasn’t it funny that their way to work was in the same direction?

It wasn’t, but who wouldn’t utter such a small white lie for the pleasure of her company. She gave him a quizzical smile and started to walk briskly with him into the cold windy day. For the next few weeks, it became his routine, getting to the coffee shop early, buying her coffee and walking her to work. He noticed how flustered she became every time he handed her the cup. He loved that she never seem to expect the gallantry.

After a few weeks, at the office building's door, she stopped and turned

—You really must stop buying me coffee everyday. It’s very sweet but it’s too much.

She voiced the same concern a few more times, but he waved off her remarks, saying he was happy to help her start the day right.

Finally, she told him to please stop ordering for her, that it made her uncomfortable to have him continuously footing the bill. He frowned at first but then chuckled and said he admired independent women. She hurried out the door leaving him to scramble to catch up. It unnerved him.

He stopped buying her coffee and she thanked him for respecting her request. When he walked out the door with her, he noted her side glance, as if she didn't expect him to still be there. He continued to wait for her at the shop and to walk her to work, but felt that her smiled seemed slightly strained and their conversation more terse. Had he misread the situation?

He decided that evening walks might be better. There would be no hurry, no need to rush into the office. They could talk about their day. He could bring up the possibility of drinks or dinner, a chance to unwind and get to know each other better. They could even go dutch if that made her happier. He watched the office for a few days to get a feel of her routine. He finally found his courage and approached her as she was stepping out of the office.

—Wow look at that, first time we finish work at the same time—what are the chances?

She looked startled to see him there. He started to walk with her, excited to put his plan into action, but she stopped suddenly.

—Sorry, I won’t be walking today. I have to go, I am meeting family this evening

She quickly hailed a taxi and left him standing in the cool evening air. As he watched the taillights recede he wondered if he should have done things differently. She had seemed so dismissive in parting. Surely he hadn’t spooked her?

He tried again the next evening, and the one after that and again and again. But she would either run for a cab, or emerge arm in arm with one of the girls from the office claiming prior plans. The worst days were those where she wouldn't come out at all, leaving him cold and frantic at not seeing her. Frustrated he gave up on evenings. He settled for their morning coffee routine. It was their time, it was how they had met, it was special to them.

One morning, she wasn't at the coffee shop. He looked for her every day that week: at the shop, on the route to work, at the exit of her office building. She had vanished. Worry gnawed at him. Had something terrible happened? Was she sick? Had she moved, changed jobs? He spent one agonizing day walking into every business in that office building with the hopes of seeing her. That's when he realized that he had no way of finding her. In all their morning conversations, he had never learned exactly what she did or where she lived. Days turned to months. He would think of her, of her smile and where it had all gone wrong. How had he been so careless? How had he let her slip through his fingers?

Then suddenly he saw her again; same bright smile, same laughing eyes. A smile that wasn't directed at him, but at the man sitting beside her in the bus. The two of them holding take out coffee cups with the same logo, oblivious to him. As the bus left the stop, he took note of the number and that night looked up its route.

He then slowly, painstakingly retraced that itinerary from beginning to end. Every day, waiting beside a different stop along the route, hoping to see her emerge from the bus. It took two months. Sixty days of waiting in the cold, of wondering why she had left without a word, why she had thrown away what they had. Had he not been kind, attentive? Did she not understand how she mattered to him?

He saw her step off at the stop, looking back over her shoulder with a smile and a wave to the same young man still sitting on the bus; watched as that smug, grinning young man waved back. With that wave, something cold settled into the pit of his stomach. He followed her, at a distance and out of sight. Saw her dig in her purse for her keys and enter the small house with the neat yard. He watched as the lights went on in different parts of the house—first the kitchen, then the glow of the television in the living room, and finally in the bedroom. He stood outside, huddled against the wind as the lights finally went out and the night went quiet. He then silently, stealthily walked up to the door, picked the lock and let himself in. He climbed the stairs to her bedroom and once there, he wrapped his hands around her neck. He squeezed until her feet stopped drumming against the bed, and the hands that clutched at his so desperately, fell limp to her side. When she was finally still, he picked her up in his arms and held her close. She was his, she had always been his and would always be his, and no bus riding, Johnny-come-lately would steal her away.

He looked at her and didn’t recognize her. The slackness of her face, the vacant stare, the bruises forming around her neck had transformed her into a stranger. He knew then what he needed to do, how he could make her his again. Rummaging through her drawers he found a scarf. He wrapped it tightly under her jaw and up around the sides of her face. Then with both hands he pushed her cheeks upwards and outwards pulling her features up and tucking them under the scarf to keep them taught. There it was, her smile, the one meant only for him. He bent down and kissed her gently. Letting her know that he cherished her. He was her one and only and she would smile for no one else. It was her last smile and he would treasure it forever, knowing he would never see it again.