How Many Words Did I Write Today? Day 6

Did you miss me yesterday? Here are 370 words. More later I hope. God, it's scary putting up a very fresh first draft for all to see.

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The next day, I asked F about you. He said you were staying up at the convent, which startled me no end, but he was quick to point out that it had been converted into a hotel some years ago. I can't remember how I managed to get up there; what excuse I used. I spent all afternoon in the lobby, drinking coffee after coffee, trying not to look too conspicuous, waiting for a glimpse of you. I thought I saw you a couple of times, but was always caught out by a different face, darker or sharper or more pronounced, and never yours. I finally gave up. It was days before I saw you again. Agonising days. I looked for you in every woman I saw. It was only when the vivid shock of your beauty was fading, and believe me I scrambed to keep you clear in my mind, that I saw you again. I was sitting alone in a tea shop, pretending to write in my note book and wishing my english breakfast was whiskey. You walked past and I jumped half out of my seat. You must have caught the sudden movement out of the corner of your eye, because you turned and looked at me. Right at me. You must have lost sight of where you were going because you stumbled a little, endearingly, and walked on into the sunshine, your arms and skirt swinging in rhythm. I jumped up, threw too much money on the table and, I’m ashamed to say, followed you. You never knew this, but I stayed behind you all the way up High Street. When you stopped to gaze in a shop window I stopped two shops down and gazed too, usually at balls of bright fleecy wool, or a confusing array of kitchen gadgets. When you reached the edge of town and kept walking, I had to let you go. Of course, I would find you again. I had to know who you were and what made your dress swing like that. And to do that I would have to get you alone at a small table with nothing but new conversation and a bottle of B’s finest champagne.