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There's still hope that a sinkhole will open up directly under Izzy’s feet and his feet alone. They happen all the time in other places, why couldn't it happen to him in this fancy, twatty restaurant?
“So you own a business?”
“Nothing special. Just a smoke shop.”
“People do like to smoke.”
The tie around his neck is cutting off circulation to his brain. He can feel his heart pulsing around the collar of his shirt. His shoes are uncomfortable and he's incredibly sober.
It’s not his date’s fault. The guy has done everything right from pulling out his chair to telling him he looks nice to having some type of personality. There’s no ‘perfect date’ stone left unturned and still Izzy can’t stop thinking about how this is a waste of time.
He’s only been divorced for two years, even if his marriage was vacant for longer. The only reason he agreed is because Jim begged him. “If you don't do it for yourself, do it for me,” and like any good pseudo-dad he had no choice in the matter but to accept. And now look where he is, wedged between a red brick wall and…a brick wall with glasses.
In between the “uh huh” and “fascinating”, Izzy’s mind wanders. He could still fuck the guy, it’s not like he’s unattractive. He seems to have a nice body and without the big rimmed glasses his date is pretty cute, but is it worth it? The thought of waking up with this guy trying to find his boxers and shuffling off with a quiet “this was fun” sounds like a punishment only Art the Clown could dream up.
No, he has to let this guy down. He has to tell him, “you're a nice guy, but fuck are you boring.” Because if he doesn't tell him, who will?”
“Richard?!” A voice breaks Izzy out of his trance. The man behind the voice is tall and lanky, the size of a toothpick. He's never seen him before, but apparently he believes he’s seen Izzy. And he’s pissed.
“Uh…”
“Oh, uh,” Izzy’s date looks from the man, to Izzy. “Do you know him, Izzy?”
“Izzy? So that’s the name you're using now, is it?”
Izzy blinks rapidly, his brain trying hard to catch up with what's going on around him. Suddenly everyone in the room feels angry with him, with a fair share of confusion added in the mix.
“Izzy…?”
“I…uh.”
“I gave you my best years, Richard! And this is what you do? Lying and cheating!” The man looks an inch from crying and Izzy is desperate for this to stop.
“I'm…sorry?”
“You’re sorry? Tell that to the kids! They keep asking, ‘where’s papa, where’s papa’ and I have to tell them, what exactly? Papa can't come to your play Jeremy, he’s too busy fucking Buddy Holly!”
“Who’s Buddy Hol–you know, this was fun, but…”
Izzy’s date gets up from his chair, tossing a few bucks on the table. It’s not enough for the tiny, expensive, twatty French meal they got but Izzy can’t really complain with his metaphorical plate full of…beanpole man drama.
“Yeah, that's right! You should go!” Izzy’s mystery husband shouts, causing the next table over to look back at them.
He can feel his cheeks heating.
Husband turns, a genuine smile on his lips. When he sits down at the table, Izzy seems to finally come to his senses. He’s not entirely sure what just happened, actually. He may have blacked out for a second.
“Did you…who the fuck are you?”
“Name's Frenchie. I'm your guardian angel.”
“Is this A Field of fucking Dreams? What do you mean?”
“Ah, that’s a good movie. What I wouldn't do to young Kevin Costner…”
“You just ruined my fucking date–what are you doing?”
Frenchie is already one hand out to the waitress, asking for two blueberry tarts and two coffees. This is fucking madness. One moment he's on a boring date and the next this big oaf is taking his place.
“They have incredible tarts here…”
“Frenchie…”
“They just melt in your mouth. You’ll die–”
“Will you tell me what the fuck is going on?” Izzy hisses.
“Oh.” Frenchie stops like he’s coming back to himself. Like he remembers he forgot to turn the stove off. “You were on a pretty shit date, babes.”
More blinking, his brain as clean as a metal roof. He could (read: should) get up and leave right now, leave this fucking maniac to the bill and his tarts, but gravity is apparently doubled in this restaurant because he’s like lead in his chair.
Frenchie continues once the silence becomes too much, “thought you could use some saving.”
“So you came over here because you thought my date was bad?”
“C’mon, he asked if you liked maltesers. Who asks that?”
“You…made him think I was a cheating piece of shit.”
“You should stop thinking so hard. You might hurt yourself. I’ll pick up his half of the bill.”
When their eyes connect, something shifts. Frenchie’s eyes are almost glittering in the dim light, filled with amusement and humor. Granted, he looks up at the tarts being placed before them in the exact same way but there’s an odd joy behind the total psychopath sitting next to him.
“Do you do this often? Fuck up people’s dates and then pay half the bill?”
Frenchie laughs, showing all his teeth, “only the men I think are cute.”
To Frenchie’s credit, the tart is absolutely to die for. The crust melts in Izzy’s mouth and the blueberries are the perfect mix of sweet with a tiny bit of sour. The two refills of coffee aren’t bad either, but it’s the conversation that truly captivates him.
He defends his love of d-list horror movies, and partially agrees with Frenchie’s rant over the best Twilight Zone episodes. They talk about dates, and eighties music, and 90’s heartthrob Hugh Grant.
Izzy admits his kid, Jim, conned him into the date to begin with, with the fear that he would be alone and living in their basement forever. Frenchie admits this is the first date he’s ever sabotaged, but in his defense, “the guy didn't even know who Buddy Holly was.”
Maybe Frenchie really is Izzy’s guardian angel, sent to protect him from himself. Or maybe it’s all a clever disguise, a snake in the apple tree just waiting for an air of weakness. Izzy doesn't know, but as the bill comes around and they split it down the middle, he starts to feel like maybe he wants to find out.
Salty, sweet air surrounds them as they step into the mid-summer heat. Izzy finally loosens his tie and if it wasn't for sensibilities he’d have done away with his shoes too.
“Listen I–”
“I was wondering if–”
“Go ahead–”
“For fucks sa–just say it.”
“Come to the beach with me. Do you…do you want to? It’s only a block from here.”
He's starting to feel like he might follow Frenchie anywhere.
“According to the podcasts Jim listens to, this is the part where I end up missing, yeah?”
“Well, only until morning. That's when the tart will wear off.” Frenchie flashes a grin and wiggles his eyebrows, which Izzy can't help but smirk to.
“Go on, then.” He nods, “lead the way.”
This side of the beach must be Frenchie’s favorite because he leads him exactly where he wants to go. There’s a small, fleeting moment that maybe he’ll be murdered, that the front page headline will be Old Man Murdered By Tart (both literal and derogatory), but it’s a chance he’s willing to take.
Frenchie sheds his shoes as soon as concrete turns to sand and it’s almost like he’s home again with the comfortable way he sighs. Izzy is slower to take his loafers off, but once he does, he digs his toes into the warm sand like it’s the first time.
“I don't show very many people this, but I think you’re special.”
Izzy snorts, “just met and you’re giving up all your secrets?”
“Ah, not all of them. I've got plenty stored away in the old mind box.” Frenchie taps a finger to his forehead, then turns to the water.
Izzy follows him down to where waves meet sand, greeting each other like lovers in an embrace. The water is only a touch cooler than the sand, but it never complains.
Frenchie leans down and digs his long fingers into the wet earth. Whatever he grabs, he cleans it off in the lapping waves before studying it.
“I've walked this beach thousands of times and this is the only place you can find shells like this.”
Blues, greens and purples swirl along the cracked shell in an iridescent glow. It’s horseshoe shaped through erosion, but Frenchie looks at it like it’s a precious metal; like he’s richer for finding it. Normally such childish things would unnerve Izzy. He's a grown fucking man digging in the sand for shells, but something about the way Frenchie brightens with each shell he pulls free, his talks of his collection, lets a knot loose somewhere in Izzy’s chest.
“Have you ever skipped stones before?”
“As a lad, yeah.”
“D’you ever think about the moment you stopped being a kid?”
Sure, if he wants to end up in an asylum. Izzy had to give up his freedoms early in life, way sooner than anyone should have to. He isn't even sure he was ever a kid to begin with, going from birth to thirty in a matter of seconds.
“Like at one point, your mum set you down and never picked you back up again. You stopped fishing with a stick and some line, or skipping stones with your mates. When was the last time you scraped your knee doing something stupid?”
“What are you, the ghost of Christmas past?”
Frenchie shrugs, but that toothy grin flashes again, “could be. Is there a lesson you need to learn?”
He stares out into the vastness before him, how the darkening sky meets the murky water. How much can he admit to a complete stranger?
Frenchie rolls the hem of his pants up before he wades into the water. When he’s far enough, he starts sifting through the sand, “when I was sixteen I started working for a grocer. I got to this point where the money was nice, but I never saw my friends. What's the point of money if you can't blow it at the chip shop on a Friday night? I thought, ‘fuck, this is being an adult, innit?’”
“For the rest of your fucking life.”
“It’s sad that we should lose that, don't you think?”
The urge to follow him in there is so strong that Izzy’s toes curl into the wetness below him. He won’t allow himself to potentially ruin good pants with salt water stains just for a fleeting moment of fun.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Finding stones.” He looks at Izzy like it’s obvious, like his question is stupid. “You have to have the right ones or they won’t bounce. I know you’re old but you couldn't have forgotten the cardinal rule for stone skipping.”
“Old? I–you don't even know how old I am?”
“Gray hair, thirty yard stare. It’s written all over your face. I bet you wear big fluffy scarves when it's cold because you lose heat in the neck.”
“I'm not some fucking…decrepit grandat, Frenchie.”
Frenchie hums, “debatable.”
With his upturned shirt full of rocks, he rejoins Izzy where he left him and lets them fall into the sand. He doesn't even seem to mind that his shirt is all wet as he picks up a smooth gray rock and passes it over. It’s flat and oval shaped and almost too perfect to throw back, but Izzy takes it between his thumb and forefinger anyway.
Frenchie throws his first rock, watching it skip, skip, hop against the surface of the water before sinking.
It’s been so long since he’s done this. He’s not panicking but he’s close as he watches Frenchie shoot another. What if his sink? He doesn't really feel like looking any more foolish tonight than he already has.
“You alright? You want some help?” Before Izzy can answer, he feels Frenchie at his back. His hand is warm as it skims his back, and up to his wrist, “just pull back and flick your wrist.”