There are no sea like the Channel. Even thought it’s not exactly a sea, it has an inherent charm to which he has not yet found an equal. He loves walking by the seaside, his dog – a nine-year-old light brown English Cocker Spaniel – trotting a few feet ahead. And this evening is particularly lovely. The sun is almost meeting the sea; the air is a bit chilly, just enough to make him feel comfortable. Since he lives by the seaside, he breathes like he never has before. Living with asthma isn’t the easiest of things, but the English coast offers him a wellbeing he’d have never guessed he could have.

When he decided an hour ago to go for a walk, he never intended to go anywhere in particular. But there he is, leaning on the railing, one of his beloved books in hand. There’s almost nobody around, just him, a few seagulls, and a young woman sitting on one of the two benches facing the sea, immersed in what seems to be a drawing. She looks vaguely familiar but he doesn’t think further about it. He’s just happy to be here, enjoying the peacefulness. Then suddenly a sound of paper crushed and a shout makes him turn just in time to receive a flying paper almost right in the face. Gently trying to keep the paper in his hands in a decent state despite the wind growing a bit stronger, he smiles almost shyly to the young woman: “I think that’s yours. Oh, and sorry for the crumpling, it was a lovely drawing...”

transporting my easel across town is not an easy task, but i never regret it. today, as it is my day off, i decided to take it, along with my paint and brushes, to the seaside to practice my painting. i sit on a bench, facing the waves deciding to try to reproduce their movements as it is something that my drawings lack. it's hard to portray, the movement. the image is still, yet you need to give an impression of motion.
i don't know how long i've been here for. all i know is that my sheet of paper is getting heavy from all the blue paint i've put on it. i wish i could buy some canvas, but they are way too expensive for my budget.
the wind is building up, messing with my ginger hair. i try not to pay attention to it and continue my work but one of the squalls is stronger, stealing my painting from me. no, no, no, noo ! dropping my brushes on the bench, i run after the sheet only to see a man grabbing it. i know him. i think. he probably works for hy as well.
“I think that’s yours. Oh, and sorry for the crumpling, it was a lovely drawing...” i smile as i meet his eyes.
i wouldn't say that i believe in love at first sight, but... i don't know. i felt something i had never before. goosebumps. chills. butterflies. nausea. i don't know, it's so strange. so painful and pleasant at the same time.
i look down at my feet, blushing, and end up saying : thank you. and... it's nothing. it's not that good anyways...

He meets her eyes and suddenly he feels… different. Relief. Fear. Doubt. Peace. He feels everything at once and nothing at all. you desperate romantic. He has spent so much time reading and studying the classic novels of the 19th century that he sometimes forgets how the real world works. Instant intense love is great to write and read about, but he wouldn’t dare to hope he will know the feeling someday.

Looking down to the drawing – which he finds great actually – he giggles slightly: “To be honest, I’m so bad at drawing that I’m in awe at anybody able to use a pencil, all the more brushes and paint.” His gentle smile made his features look almost childish. “And you know indisputably how to use those. So yes, it’s absolutely that good.” Time to calm down his heart or the world will start spinning. He is an introvert, he can’t help it, and shyness is a plague, especially in this kind of situation.

Then brutally he realises they don't even know each other’s names. That’s what is called doing it wrong. “My name is Fitzwilliam. Ryder. But Fitz or Will is perfectly fine.” He smiles lightly. Only his dearest friends and his family calls him Billie, and he surprises himself by hoping that maybe, one day, she might be one of them.

i'm usually not such a fool. i am certainly more shy than outgoing, but not the giggly, blushing kind. i'm used to working with people now, i can control my emotions, i can play pretend, i can do all that stuff that i, apparently, have forgotten with the sudden wind. i fell vulnerable. weak. naked. but as surprisingly as it can be, it's not such a bad sensation.
he compliments my art which is, to be honest, not that bad. i cannot stop smiling as i whisper, running out of smart things to say : thank you. i could teach you someday, if you want. maybe not the waves thing though, i've been trying to master it for ages now, and i'm still not entirely satisfied with it. but you know, something simpler. maybe a tree, or a silhouette.
as he says his name, i begin to recognize him. he does work for hy, in the w&m department if i recall correctly. i think we might even have exchanged a few emails. jazz. well, jasmin rigby, but i prefer jazz. actually rigby isn't my real name, it's gallmarini, but my father lef... shoot. shut up jazz. aaand i'm making a fool of myself again. i'm sorry, i don't know why i am telling you this. i'm not sure i have told anybody in fact. i should write a book : how to ruin your chances at a relationship for dummies.

A smile of hers and she could ask anything of him. It’s quite creepy to think, but he would be a fool not to understand that. What solution has he left? Embracing the fact that he is at her mercy? Possibly. “thank you. i could teach you someday, if you want.” He smiles dumbly, and answers without thinking: “sure, I'd love that. But I warn you: you’ll need patience, and a lot of it.” What was that, Fitz? He hates drawing, with all his soul. Obviously, one of his deepest beliefs –his hate for the subtle art of drawing – was only worth one of her smiles.
Her name’s Jazz. That sounds fresh and a thousand times more modern than his, but you know, parents. And yes, they are definitely working together, since he’s been asking himself the question since they began to talk. “aaand i'm making a fool of myself again. i'm sorry, i don't know why i am telling you this. i'm not sure i have told anybody in fact.” He’s not sure of it was meant to be some sort of compliment, but a part of him can’t help feeling a little… honoured? Trustworthy? “hey, that’s fine, you’re no fool at all.” And then all of a sudden, he adds: “my mam was a helpless fan of Jane Austen’s writings… she named all of her children after characters of those books. But I got her favourite.” He smiles. “See? Now we’re even in the “what you shouldn’t say to people you barely know” thing.”
A gust threatens to shake them. Apparently, the typical English weather is back, end of the sunny truce for today. It’s getting chilly, but luckily he knows the place, and the tearoom on the pier, two steps away from them, is pure delight. “This tearoom has armchairs, hot tea and don’t even ask me about their cakes, cause you couldn’t put a stop to the endless praise I’d begin. See? Even now I'm starting to talk too much. So… tea, cake, and talking about dumbs thing, with me. What say you?” Him and his old turns of phrase. But he can’t help it. He loves old English.

i don't know how i manage to always embarrass myself like that. the conversation is going well but still, i need to ruin everything. my social awkwardness is killing me. but he doesn't seem to mind. his smile is comforting, warm and fulfilling. “my mam was a helpless fan of Jane Austen’s writings… she named all of her children after characters of those books. But I got her favourite.” i can't help it but smile. it's adorable ! i wish i had a nice story to tell around my name as well. but mine is nothing but sweet, only painful. i got rid of every spanish connotation it had to take as much distance with my father as i could.
“This tearoom has armchairs, hot tea and don’t even ask me about their cakes, cause you couldn’t put a stop to the endless praise I’d begin. See? Even now I'm starting to talk too much. So… tea, cake, and talking about dumbs thing, with me. What say you?” i'm usually not the kind of girl that would agree to have a drink with a complete stranger, but i don't hesitate for a second. sure! it's getting chilly anyways. i put my brushes back in the little plastic bag they belong to, pretty sure i'll regret not washing them first as soon as i get home. i look at the painting in my hands and, before even being able to think about what i'm saying, i ask him ? do you want it ? as a keepsake of this day... oh gosh. why jazz? why ? why would he want to remember meeting you today ? i should have kept my mouth shut. again.