A quiet man, a borrowed chair, and one day at the Fringe that neither of them expected.

Fionn liked to read in the café because he could do it there while people-watching – there was a steady turnover of new and some familiar faces in the upstairs seating area and, from his window seat, he had a view of the pedestrians on the Royal Mile – and, when the café was busy, someone might ask to share his table and he’d assure them it was no bother. Most people didn’t speak to him again once they sat down and he’d wait for them to leave before he would so they wouldn’t think they’d run him off. On occasion, however, he was joined by an oddball who wasn’t content to let him read and people-watch in peace.

            There was the cross-eyed motormouth with an urgent question. ‘Do I seem trustworthy to you? Nobody trusts me, I dinna understand it. I mean, I don’t trust myself. I was a junkie and, you know yourself, once a junkie … I’m done with that shite now though.’ He offered to buy Fionn a coffee and, when Fionn said, ‘I’m grand, thanks,’ he asked for some change to buy himself one.

            There was the old man who nodded at whatever book Fionn was taking cover behind and said, ‘You’re a reader, are you? Y’know, I read something I shouldn’t have once. My daughter’s diary.’ He told Fionn how shocked he was by the details she’d recorded of her sex life, her enthusiasm for sleeping with men she hardly knew.

And there was the eerie, middle-aged woman who sat and stared unblinkingly at him, her mouth soured in a downturn, like she could see into his soul and it was the gateway to oblivion.

Fionn wondered if he was a soft touch. He allowed the woman to join him despite there being free tables he could have redirected her to. He listened sympathetically to the old man’s confession. He paid for the junkie’s coffee. So he supposed he was, but he felt sorry for them. The junkie was his age. The old man was guilt-ridden. The woman’s mind was probably frayed from doing too much people-watching. And Fionn had something in common with them: he was an oddball too. People who regularly sit alone in cafés tend to be.

During the festival, something new happened.

            Edinburgh was buzzing with visitors, the twisting streets and alleyways were filled with rare light, and the vibes were contagious. Even Fionn wanted to be out and about, or to at least be festival-adjacent, which he was, sitting in his spot with his books, Roald Dahl in his hands, Daphne du Maurier atop Leo Tolstoy on the table, their spines out.

            He didn’t realize he had company until he was asked, ‘Excuse me?’ and he looked up to see a short girl with brown eyes and sallow skin smiling at him. She put her hand on the chair across from him. ‘May I? There’s nowhere else.’

            Her smile faltered before he said, ‘Please,’ and made a sweeping gesture towards the chair. Too sweeping. He wasn’t a feudal lord inviting her to behold his fiefdom.

            As she sat and set her iced tea down, he moved his books and his coffee closer to himself, and restarted the paragraph he’d been reading, while observing her without looking directly at her. She was English, he was bad at recognizing accents but he could tell that much, and she sounded well-to-do but he was less certain of that. She tore a straw from its paper wrapper, plonked it in her tea, and jostled the ice cubes about. From her handbag, she took out a stack of colourful flyers and looked through them. She was fidgety. Was she nervous about something?

            He turned to the next page of his book. He hadn’t absorbed the last page but he couldn’t have her think he was a slow reader.

            He had a feeling she was looking at him and couldn’t check without looking at her. A glance then. She was. His eye caught, she said, ‘May I ask you a question?’

            ‘Um, ask me two if you’d like. You’ve one left.’ She didn’t laugh but she did smile and he was happy with his adequately amusing reply. Then he undermined it. ‘Sorry, please, ask me anything, as many questions as you want, please.’

            ‘Okay. Why are you reading three books at once? If you are reading the other two, or are they just in your queue and you have them on display for aspirational purposes?’

            ‘Hah, no, I’m mid-read with both. When I jump around, it’s easier for me to study the contrasts in each writer’s style.’

‘Is that your dream? You want to be a writer?’

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

            ‘I promise.’

            He nodded at her flyers. ‘You’re here for the festival?’

            ‘Yes, for the weekend. I leave tomorrow. My friends bailed on me so it’s a solo trip. I have till I finish my tea to decide what to see next.’

            ‘Cool.’

            Cool? For fuck’s sake. He returned his gaze to his book and, while he was cursing himself for failing to think of a follow-up question, she interrupted his pretence of reading a second time.

‘So is it good, The Big Fucking Giant? Sorry, you did say I have unlimited questions.’

He liked that she said ‘fucking’. She was testing him. He had to say it back.

‘The initials stand for Big Friendly Giant, not ‘Fucking’ Giant, but I suspect you knew that.’

She sipped her tea through her straw and said, ‘Might have done.’

‘The Big Fucking Giant is a better fucking title.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And, yeah, I loved it as a kid and wanted to see if it would hold up, and I think it does but it’s hard to evaluate that because it’s coloured by fucking nostalgia for me.’

‘Does reading it alongside War and Peace help you understand what Tolstoy is doing?’

‘Sure, although it’s impossible for me to fully appreciate his language when I’m reading him in fucking translation and it’s an especially archaic fucking translation. There are lines like, “‘Damn you!’ he ejaculated with a grimace”, which I assume reads differently in Russian.’

Look at him go: he was being daring with what he was willing to say to a stranger too. And she laughed like she was in need of a laugh.

He asked her what shows she’d seen and she listed a few and he asked if she’d narrowed down her options for what to see next and she said it was between some improv or some more stand-up. And he was listening with his book almost closed, using his finger as a bookmark, and the conversation had become more of an interview, and, finally, she sighed and said, ‘I guess I’ll see you around. Thanks for the seat.’

            He told her to enjoy the rest of the weekend and it was after she’d risen to her feet and he pulled his finger out of his book, and it was sore from being wedged between the pages, that he said, ‘Wait, I’ve been meaning to see some stuff and it’s cool if you want to go to your next fucking thing by yourself but do you, would you, mind if I tag along?’

Her name was Isha. He asked when they were outside, the sun on their faces as the crowd weaved around them, so they wouldn’t be strangers he said and he told her his name.

            ‘Fun? Finn?’

            ‘Somewhere in the middle. Fionn. It’s Irish. I’m Irish.’

            ‘I guessed you were before we spoke, Fionn. You have an Irish look.’

            He refrained from asking if that was a positive or a negative.

            They went to the improv, in the basement of a pub that was reputed to be haunted. Isha picked their seats, at the front. Fionn didn’t mention he was more of a sit-at-the-back guy or that he wasn’t a fan of improv. For him, it was like watching a live grenade being tossed around, so think of something funny to say or die and take the whole team with you, and repeat. He reminded himself that this was the performers’ idea of a good time.

            As they waited for it to start, Isha whispered, ‘There’s a bit of a draft, isn’t there?’

            He hadn’t noticed it before but then the hair stood up on the back of his neck, either because she was right or a ghost was nearby or maybe it was because of how her breath lingered in his ear.

            The show didn’t change his mind about improv. There were three guys and one girl, all dressed in black, with bowler hats on. The guys were quite samey – they were tall and thin and they paused for laughter after everything they said, whether it was forthcoming or not. The girl was the only one with a spark. The guys kept standing in front of her and she had to hop around them or move them aside and she got laughs for this but Fionn didn’t think her fellow performers were in on the joke.

            They went to a stand-up show next, in the basement of another pub, and, again, they sat at the front, and Fionn wanted Isha to think he was easygoing, for as long as he could get away with it, so he didn’t object. He liked stand-up, when he could watch it from a safe distance and when the comedians were experienced and he could be reasonably confident it would go well for them. He was less keen about watching comedians who were trying to establish themselves – if they couldn’t get a laugh, he’d be mortified for them. And this was a free show. Quality wasn’t guaranteed.

            The first two comedians were fine. The small audience was game to laugh at anything that was passably funny and the response was better than the material deserved. There was one tense moment, for Fionn, when the big-haired second comedian was doing crowd work and he asked Fionn and Isha if they were a couple and Fionn answered with a brusque, ‘No,’ then the comedian said, ‘But you want to be, don’t you, mate?’ before adding, ‘Don’t answer that!’ and moving on.

            Fionn was sitting with his backpack between his knees and his leg was pressed against Isha’s leg, and she didn’t seem to mind his proximity but he couldn’t look at her for the rest of Big Hair’s set.

            The third comedian, a stubbled, hungover-looking Australian, was the worst Fionn had ever seen. He might have been the worst comedian anyone had ever seen. His routine was centred on how ginormous his cock was and he mimed holding the trunk of it in his hands and spraying it across the room. Nobody in the audience mustered a single laugh; even some jeers would have been more bearable than the silence the performance was met with.

            The air in the basement was dry and Isha released bursts of clipped coughs, and Fionn could feel a trembling in her leg and knew she had a tickle in her throat she couldn’t clear, so, as discreetly as he could, he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a bottle of water, loosened the cap, and handed it to her, and a tear slid down her cheek as she took it from him and mouthed a thank-you. While she drank and the Aussie gyrated his hips and boasted about banging gagging-for-it chicks, to Fionn’s horror, a tickle formed in his own throat and, tilting his head back, he tried to swallow it and tears came to his eyes too. Then he felt Isha’s fingers on his knee and she handed him his bottle, half of the water remaining, and it was enough to drown the tickle.

            Another mercy: the Aussie was done. Without a hint of humour, the last thing he said to the audience was, ‘Thanks for ruining my life! I flew around the world for this!’

            Above ground and outside, Isha suggested some rules. ‘No more basements. No more sitting at the front. And we have to see something really good.’

            Fionn didn’t need persuading. But when they went to get tickets for a hotly tipped puppet show, he was taken aback by the price and Isha said she’d be happy to pay for him, like money was no object to her, and maybe it wasn’t but he insisted on paying for himself.

            Held inside a giant tent with a purple, upside-down-cow exterior, feet and udders pointed at the sky, the show was a blend of macabre puppetry, surrealist theatre, old-timey music, and gothic-fantasy storytelling, with voice-over narration by Dame Judi Dench. It was batshit, in a good way, and Fionn didn’t mind what he’d paid. Isha squeezed his arm whenever there was a funny bit and, towards the end, he yawned his arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him and rested her hand on his leg.

            They left holding hands but, under the cow’s googly eyes, they let go. Fionn wasn’t sure if he let go first or if it was her.

            They got burgers from a food van and beers in plastic cups from an outdoor bar, and sat at a picnic table. It was still bright out and they were more shy with each other, with their glancing eye contact and how Isha covered her mouth with her hand while she chewed, than they would’ve been, Fionn thought, if it was darker or if they were indoors. The beer helped and, although he feared he was being overearnest when he talked about how inspiring it was to watch something so creative, she agreed wholeheartedly. She was giddy and he got the sense she was proud of herself for picking up a stranger in a café and making a day of it and he was flattered to be viewed as some sort of win for her, and nervous. He was determined to kiss her and had to find the right moment.

            She said it was his turn to decide what to do next and he took a risk. ‘How do you feel about freak shows?’

            The freak show was in another, much smaller, tent, and the first ‘freak’ was a heavily tattooed guy who inserted hooks into his nipples then attached chains to the hooks and crouched down and attached the chains to a car battery, so when he stood up the battery dangled from his stretched nipples and, eyes wide, he electrocuted himself, rattling a cattle prod against the chains and poking it into his stomach, as the audience flinched and grimaced then politely clapped at the end.

            Fionn said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ to Isha, who said, ‘Don’t be. He was less torturous to watch than the cock comedian.’

            Next up was a contortionist who stood on her hands while folding her waist backwards, bending her legs over her head, and framing her chin with her feet. Isha told Fionn she wasn’t as flexible as that and asked if he was. He refused to answer. ‘Not until I know you better.’

            The freak show might have been missing an act because the contortionist was followed by the buff bouncer who’d checked their tickets as they entered. He announced he was the world recordholder for ‘no-handed push-ups’, which was perplexing but he didn’t keep the audience in suspense. He showed them that he only had a right hand, his left arm ended in a smooth stump at the wrist, and, with his right arm behind his back, he planted his stump on the stage and did fifty one-armed no-handed push-ups.

            The last act was a Guinness-certified recordholder: a Brazilian lady with red, blue, green, purple, and pink hair, or hair extensions, who had the most body piercings of any woman in the world, over seven thousand, including hundreds that obscured her face. Her body was her act and she wore a puffy ankle-length black dress that concealed most of it, but, in her gravelly accent, she talked about her passion for being pierced and she flirted with everyone there, making outrageous and yet convincing claims about her number of genital piercings and how a high percentage were located internally. She did have one trick, which she saved for the end. She removed a stud from the side of her nose, then produced a hammer and a long, thin nail, and hammered the nail into the hole in her face, cackling with every tap.

When Fionn and Isha wandered out of the tent, the sky was dark and he said, ‘So, if any of that was a bit much—’

            ‘Are you kidding? I’ll remember what we saw in there for the rest of my life. But I think I’ve reached my limit of shows for the day.’

            ‘Oh, okay, you want to head back to your hostel?’

            ‘Gosh, no, I’m thirsty.’

They went to an old man’s pub where Fionn thought they’d be able to get a table, and that proved to be overly optimistic but they found a ledge to stand next to and he dumped his backpack underneath and Isha kept guard while he waded to the bar.

As he was returning, carrying two pints, he saw a burly guy talking to her, and she was smiling up at him and Fionn was instantly jealous. He wondered if she picked up a different guy every other day and she was perfectly entitled to do that, more power to her, and to ditch him for someone else if she wanted to and he wasn’t mad at her; he just felt foolish. Then he moved closer and he recognized the uneasiness in her smile and she was glad to see him but he had a new problem. Should he try to get rid of the interloper for her or would that be overstepping? No, he had to.

            He met the guy’s eye, said, ‘Sorry, man,’ and extended his arm between them to set Isha’s pint on the ledge, then he put his arm around Isha’s waist, and she put her arm around his waist and said, ‘This is Fionn, my boyfriend. And your name is?’

            The guy was wasted, his shoulders swaying, and Fionn took a gulp of his pint, for fortitude and to reduce the amount of potential spillage if he was about to be shoved. But there wasn’t any trouble. The guy ignored Isha’s question and apologized to Fionn, ‘Meant no disrespect, Fun,’ and walked away, examining the contents of his wallet as he staggered to the bar.

            Fionn removed his arm and said, ‘Was that okay?’

            Isha didn’t remove hers. ‘Yes, thank you. You should keep playing your part though. The leery bloke is still watching us.’

            Fionn didn’t turn to see if he was. He put his arm around her again and said, ‘Hold on. I know just the trick to stop him from coming back.’ Then he set his pint beside hers and put his other arm around her too and kissed her, and she welcomed it, thank fucking God. She kissed him back.

The next day, he returned to the café and sat with a coffee at his table. He had his backpack full of books with him but didn’t take any out. He was waiting for Isha and kicking himself for how he left it the night before.

            It had been going so well. They had more drinks in the pub, then she asked him to walk her to where she was staying. She’d let him think it was at a hostel but it was a hotel and not a cheap one, and they took their time, pausing to appreciate the skyline from the North Bridge, pausing to snog and rub against each other.

            There was more of that outside the hotel, then she said, ‘I’m not going to invite you to my room,’ but she sounded like she was tempted to and he just said, ‘Okay,’ and asked for her number and said he didn’t want this to be the last time he saw her, and she embraced him, her face against his chest, and he couldn’t see her eyes or tell what she was thinking.

            Then she pulled away and proposed a plan. Instead of trading numbers now, they could meet in the café at noon tomorrow, her train home to London was at four so she had some time, and if he woke in the morning and decided he didn’t want to spoil their one great day together by trying to keep something going when they didn’t live in the same city, he wouldn’t have to send an awkward message to cancel; he could just not show up. There’d be no hard feelings.

            He agreed to her plan and said there’d be no hard feelings from him either if she didn’t show up, and they shared a prolonged goodnight kiss and it was gorgeous, she was gorgeous he thought, he might have whispered that to her, then he watched her go inside and he walked home, passing through a lot of festival mayhem before reaching his quiet street. 

            And, at the café, he arrived early and, now, Isha was ten minutes late.

            Twenty minutes. Half an hour. Fuck.

            He had hard feelings but not for her. For himself. He should have told her how much he wanted to come up to her room, he could have said that once, without pressuring her, to remove any doubt she might have had about what he was thinking. And he should have said he’d rather receive an awkward cancelation message – he was never going to be the one sending it – than to end up waiting cluelessly.

            But what was he more frustrated about? That he’d missed a chance to get laid or that, by the minute, he was increasingly unlikely to ever see her again? Well, honestly, he was frustrated by both but it was the latter that truly stung. 

He didn’t think she owed him anything though. She’d given him a confidence boost at a time when he was at a low ebb, even raised his horizons a little. Some days, when you’re in your head and don’t expect it, good fortune can walk right up to you. She showed him that.

And maybe she was standing him up because of what she said about not wanting to spoil a great day, or maybe he did something that put her off once she’d had time to reflect. Maybe, at the freak show, she’d thought, oh, no, these are his people except he doesn’t have a talent comparable to theirs, and, that was okay, maybe they were, maybe he didn’t. Maybe she thought he was a bad kisser. That was also … okay. Her memory of him belonged to her and she could think about him any way she wanted to, and his memory of her belonged to him and he would treasure it.

Of course, there was a possibility that they’d crossed wires about what time they were meeting. She might have thought it was at one. Or she might be running very late. They’d had a long, boozy night. She could have overslept. She could be an epileptic and she had a fit, and was fine now and on her way, almost here.

He’d wait until one-thirty. No, until her train was gone but he wouldn’t go to the station to look for her. He wasn’t desperate and she knew where to find him.

            Then there were footsteps on the stairs, approaching quickly. Someone was about to appear at the top and walk through the open door.