lone·ly -- [lohn-lee]
–adjective, -li·er, -li·est.
1. affected with, characterized by, or causing a depressing feeling of being alone; lonesome.
2. destitute of sympathetic or friendly companionship, intercourse, support, etc.: a lonely exile.
3. lone; solitary; without company; companionless.
4. remote from places of human habitation; desolate; unfrequented; bleak: a lonely road.
5. standing apart; isolated: a lonely tower.
And had the online dictionary been updated recently there would have been a number six.
6. Samantha Gray, 109 West Rd. Apt. # 210B; and cat. Twenty-three years old, has NEVER had a serious boyfriend. Will die a virgin.
It isn't so much that Samantha is a hopeless romantic...or even that she's a spinster man-hater. No, it's more like a clock that doesn't tell the time; a doorbell that doesn't ring. The potential is there but for some reason, it doesn't work. So, instead (of men) Sam enjoys renting movies and eating too many gummy worms to be healthy. She jokes with her cat, Levii, and checks the weather channel frequently because she swears it changes with her mood.
Of course, this was all before the morning of January fifth when the curse of her species came whacking her in the face, or, better yet, legs. She had been in a hurry that morning because her alarm clock uncharacteristically didn't go off. It had taken Levii, the cat, scratching at her face (and leaving a mark next to another scratch of his, like a tally) to finally stir her. She didn't get to brush her hair, but she hadn't been able to actually brush her hair for going on four years now. She was shoving a bag of gummy worms into her large yellow purse when the collision occurred.
She gazed up like a broken doll, mouth agape, eyes wide, at a man who couldn't possibly be real; his looks unearthly. He looked annoyed with her, and he was. She had managed to smear what looked, and smelled, like cat food on his sharp white blouse. She realized then that she was still holding the spoon she used to feed Levii his wet cat food not three minutes earlier.
"Oh fuck, so sorry." She jumped up. The man was not impressed with her foul language. To him, adding the word "fuck" with the word "sorry" didn't mix well, like pickles and jam...which ironically, Samantha liked. Sam proceeded to wipe the cat food off with her hand, grinding it further into the man's shirt. His eyebrows furrowed deeper, closer towards his startling blue eyes.
"Well thank you for that but I think I can manage from here." He turned from her, a one hundred and eighty degree turn, and meant to walk away from the odd girl faster than a squirrel. Butt. Hrm, BUT, she grabbed his elbow, which he suddenly felt like rubbing, and pulled him back until he was forced to turn back at her un-plucked eyebrows. He quirked one of his perfectly shaped ones.
"Yes?" Asked the thick British accent. Sam wanted to ask herself the same question. She didn't know that the same instinct that had forced her to stop the man in front of her had also tripped her descendant many many years earlier. Oh instinct; it seems to be a bit sadistic.
"Um. Sorry again." And that was all. The man blinked at her quickly...and then he was off. She watched him until the crowd would no longer let her and then was startled by her cellphone ringing.
It was work.
She was late.
"Oh fuck it all."
Pickles and jam.
Intermission.
Starbucks isn't just a place people come to get coffee; it's much more. They can get a pastry too. Samantha had been working at Starbucks for three years. Not only was she sick of the smell of coffee, but she was sick of coffee drinkers in general. Coffee drinkers make up a good 93% of the population, so Samantha hates most people. She served hot coffee after cold coffee and warmed up more muffins than that sexual innuendo had been used. She was just about to take a break and attempt to smoke at least half her pack of cigarettes when she recognized a face in the line in front of her. After spotting a brown smudge on the man's shirt, confirming her suspicions, she all but giggled. Alright, so she was acting a bit like a moron but Sam hadn't had a crush (on a perfect stranger that could be a serial killer) since....ever. She messed up both of the two orders that came before the man, her man, but was glad to have more time to gawk at him. Finally, they met again.
"Right, can I get a-"
"Hi." Sam blurted out like a frog...a frog that could speak. The man had a finger pointing at the menu above him, his mouth open a little in confusion.
"I'm sorry?" He asked politely, because he didn't recognize her, yet. Sam shifted her weight to her left hip and blinked rapidly, a most unbecoming nervous habbit of hers. The man tried to keep up with her blinking.
"Hi." And this time she pointed at her cat's food on his shirt. Almost immediately the man dropped his finger and his common courtesy.
"Oh. Fun. You. Listen, I just want a venti coffee. Minus the cat food if you don't mind too terribly; my girlfriend's allergic; thanks." Sam's smile dropped faster than her pants would have had he asked her to bed. GIRLFRIEND? Question mark. She felt almost cheated. Quickly realizing how ridiculous she was/is, she put all her concentration on ringing up a venti coffee.
"Room for cream and sugar?"
"No."
"Two dollars."
He handed her his credit card and she tried very hard to not look at his name...really, she did. Liam Track. Samantha thought it was the best name she had ever heard. Samantha Track. Oh it was lovely and she was envisioning their children, which were all cats for some reason...hmm. Suddenly, he was picking up his coffee and then he was gone all over again.
Unbeknown to Liam, and quickly becoming known to Sam, he had left behind a keepsake for his beloved, whom he didn't love.