June 2009
It was a Friday evening, and Reykjavik was just waking up. Plenty of people were out and about, ready to party all night in the June midnight sun.
Not Sören Sigurðsson. He had just gotten off a grueling ten-hour shift at the cafe where he worked as a waiter. Summer had become his least favorite season, because it brought the rude, entitled tourists who barked at him, treated him like a slave, and tipped poorly. He dealt with horrible customers all-year round, but American tourists in the summertime was a special kind of evil.
Sören just wanted to go home, take a shower, and curl up with a good book, or maybe do some sketching for awhile. The idea of going out to a bar or club and dealing with yet more people was not his idea of fun anymore. He resented that - he used to love to go dancing, just for himself, whether or not he ended up having a hookup with anyone that night - but he felt like his job had turned him into an angry old man before his time; he would be twenty-five in November.
Sören lived close enough to the cafe to be able to walk to and from work. He didn't own a car, getting around Reykjavik by foot, bicycle, and bus. He was so used to walking to and from work that his usually observant, eye-for-detail artist mind didn't pay attention on the route, especially when he was exhausted. But tonight there was something different.
"PLAY JAJA DING DONG!"
Sören facepalmed and rolled his eyes. But then, a guitar strummed, and there was a lovely tenor - soulful, husky, velvet, reminiscent of George Michael's voice but even sexier - singing that favorite song of local bars, that was completely ridiculous for that sexy voice.
When I feel your gentle touch
And things are going our way
I wanna spill my love on you all day, all day
Jaja ding dong
My love for you is growing wide and long
Jaja ding dong
I swell and burst when I see what we become
Jaja ding dong
Come on, baby, we can get love on
Jaja ding dong
When I see you, I feel like ding-ding dong...
There was a small crowd of people gathered around the musician, and it compelled Sören to get closer and take a look. The man sitting on the ground playing acoustic guitar was just as lovely as his voice, if not moreso - raven-black waves of hair to the middle of his back, intense silver-grey eyes, chiseled, smouldering features. Full lips just asking to be kissed. The man was wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, faded jeans, and the same Doc Martens as Sören. Sören's breath hitched as he took in the man's beauty. He could be a model; he should be a star, with those looks and that voice. Not sitting on the sidewalk in Reykjavik, playing for these ingrates who didn't even have the common courtesy to toss some coins or bills into the open guitar case before they walked off.
A couple of the people lingered after "Jaja Ding Dong" was over. Sören waited, reluctant to make a request, feeling shy, but also feeling like the man should play what he wanted to play, that his performance would be even better with something from the heart. The man did some scales and took a few deep breaths, looking deep in thought, and then he played another familiar song. The sensual-yet-mournful guitar solo, and then:
I feel so unsure
As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor
As the music dies, something in your eyes
Calls to mind a silver screen
And all its sad good-byes
I'm never gonna dance again
Guilty feet have got no rhythm
Though it's easy to pretend
I know you're not a fool
Should've known better than to cheat a friend
And waste the chance that I'd been given
So I'm never gonna dance again
The way I danced with you...
While the Wham song was 80s cheese, something about the way the man performed it - the sorrow and longing in his voice - made it his own, sending a shiver down Sören's spine, arms breaking out in gooseflesh. After that song, the man played a song from Sade, this one even more melancholy, bringing tears to Sören's eyes.
He told me sweet lies of sweet loves
Heavy with the burden of the truth
And he spoke of his dreams
Broken by the burden
Broken by the burden of his youth...
Even though the song was by Sade, it still seemed almost autobiographical, with the way the man played and sang. Sören's eyes filled with tears, feeling a tight ache in his chest - this was the voice of someone who had seen some things. Sören was familiar with that himself, having endured his own share of trauma, which had driven him to try to take his own life a few years ago.
When the song was over, Sören's eyes locked with the singer's, and now Sören picked up on something besides his beauty, and the loveliness of his voice - he smelled delicious, too. Petrichor, sea salt and musk. A distinctive Alpha scent. Sören's cheeks burned, suddenly feeling shy, flutters in his stomach.
If they had met at a bar or a club, Sören would have tested his luck with whether or not the man was gay or bisexual and wanted to rut with an Omega. But instead they were here on the street corner and the man had covered a couple of pop songs in a way that spoke to the core of Sören's grief, making him feel like he'd been rubbed raw. Probably when he got back to his flat he'd cry a little.
The other people watching the performance walked away now and it was just them. Sören found himself reaching for his wallet. His job didn't pay much and rent in Reykjavik was expensive, so Sören never had a lot of money to spare, but now he was willing to dip into his discretionary spending money as a way to say thank you, feeling like he needed to express his appreciation somehow, especially when other people did not. He took out a 2000 ISK note and dropped it into the open guitar case. "Þúsund þakkir," he said, trying to smile through unshed tears.
The man opened his mouth slightly, eyes wide, like he was genuinely shocked someone was giving him money. Then he picked up the bill out of his guitar case and tried to hand it back to Sören. "I don't need this," he explained in Icelandic.
Sören's face burned even hotter, feeling like he'd made a mistake, like he'd offended the guitarist without meaning to. He knew that people struggling for money were often proud - he suffered from that himself - but it wasn't that much money, enough to buy a meal at a pub or his cafe maybe. Sören bit his lower lip, muttered "Keep it," and then he dashed off, mortified. He hated these moments of doing what he thought was the right thing to do, and it turned out he'd made a faux pas socially, but it felt especially painful now with such a gorgeous Alpha.
You don't even know him, what do you care? You'll probably never see him again.
Sören knew there was a non-zero chance of that - Reykjavik had just over a hundred thousand people - but he'd also been living here for years and it was the first time he'd seen that guy; the singer was striking enough Sören would have remembered him. Indeed, he would have assumed the man was a tourist were it not for answering him in Icelandic.
Sören was shaking by the time he got to his flat. He went right to the sink, splashed some cold water on his face, and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. But the scene kept replaying in his head.
"I'm an idiot," Sören said to himself, and rested his head on the kitchen counter for a moment. He started counting, something he'd learned to do to try to get his mind to stop doing the "broken record" routine with painful or intrusive thoughts.
"Everything's fine," Sören told himself after he counted to fifty. "Everything's cool. Everything's fine." He took some more deep breaths, sat down, and tried to forget.
"Excuse me, I didn't order this."
Oh, here we fucking go. Sören braced himself. His heart started beating a little faster, and he felt that surge of anger - burning hotter with each customer who gave him a hard time, but especially when it was these Americans, who flooded his country during the summer and acted like they owned it and the Icelandic people were their servants.
"Jæja, you did." Sören made it a point to memorize every order on the off chance the kitchen screwed up. "That's the shrimp salad, just like you ordered." He put on his best fake smile.
"THAT IS NOT SHRIMP SALAD!" The woman was in hysterics now, and for a moment Sören thought she was going to throw a menu at him. She was one of those middle-aged women determined to fight age as hard as she could, with obviously fake dyed red hair, a face that had seen too much Botox, and eyebrows penciled to near-oblivion; her plastic face was contorted into a hideous snarl that reminded Sören of wicked witches from fairy tales. Her Alpha scent was like battery acid. "You ignorant peon, a shrimp salad has green leaves, and garden vegetables, and shrimp tossed in it! With salad dressing! Not... this!" She held up the bowl.
Sören sighed, but continued to try to keep calm, his fake smile getting bigger. He reached over, plucked the menu, and opened it. "There's a picture right here in the salads section of what it is. When you say shrimp salad here in Iceland, our rækjusalat is shrimp mixed with mayonnaise and eggs and spices. That's what you ordered, the rækjusalat."
"Well, you should have told me what I was ordering, before I ordered it."
"There's... a picture. On. The. Menu." Sören smiled through grit teeth. He took a deep breath, still reeling from being called an "ignorant peon". "I'd be happy to take your order for something else if you're dissatisfied -"
"And pay MORE money? For something that was YOUR mistake?"
Sören narrowed his eyes. "It's not my fault you didn't look at the picture -"
"HOW DARE YOU! I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!"
Everyone in the cafe was looking at her now. Sören hoped they all realized she was being unreasonable, that they realized she was the one at fault - he didn't want to catch an attitude from anyone else he waited on because they thought he was the one being "mean". Sören really didn't want to get his manager over this, but then, she was hysterical enough and over such nonsense hopefully the manager would see it wasn't his fault.
"GET ME YOUR MANAGER RIGHT NOW!"
"Jæja," Sören said, and as he turned around he muttered, "tík," under his breath, knowing that even if she could hear the whispered word, an English speaker wasn't likely to understand what he'd said.
On his way to the back to get the manager - who was on break and likely wouldn't appreciate the interruption - the hem of his shirt got a tug. Sören didn't like random strangers touching him, least of all someone grabbing at him because they wanted a refill or something - but as he stopped in his tracks, deadly close to reading the handler the riot act, he saw it was the guitarist from two nights ago.
"Hi," the guitarist said. "Remember me?"
Sören had tried his hardest to forget, and couldn't. Those eyes. That voice. That scent. Sören's stomach began doing flip-flops.
But he was feeling defensive because of the horrible woman he was waiting on... and he was on his way to get the manager. He didn't need the complaint from the woman that he was "slow" on top of everything else. He also really didn't need to hear from the guitarist that his pride had been offended by the offering of money. "I'm at work," Sören hissed, and ducked away.
A few minutes later Sören followed the manager from the back of the cafe. The manager, Jónína, was a no-nonsense Beta woman old enough to be Sören's mother, who had plenty of experience dealing with customers like this one. Jónína listened to the American's hysterical tirade with a bored look on her face, and when the woman was done ranting, Jónína said simply, "There's a picture on the menu, and a description underneath the item in small print. My waiter was not the one at fault bringing you exactly what you ordered."
"I WANT A REFUND!"
Jónína rolled her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and swore under her breath in Icelandic.
Sören calmly waited on other customers, taking their orders, as he listened to the American screaming at his manager. He felt vindicated that Jónína knew it wasn't his fault, but now he felt bad for Jónína having to deal with her, and angry all over again. He tried not to let it show, but his calm was quickly undone when he went to the kitchen to collect orders to bring out and saw that one of them - a ham and egg sandwich with a side of chips - was going to the musician's table.
"Here you go," Sören said, setting the tray of food down in front of the singer, trying to smile, feeling a flare of anxiety. "Enjoy."
"When is your break?"
Sören raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I want to talk to you."
Sören stammered, not able to make a response. He remembered the singer trying to hand the money back to him the other night, and how embarrassed he felt, like he'd done something wrong. He didn't need a lecture, especially not today when he'd already had a customer from hell. He backed away without saying anything, heading back to the kitchen for more orders to bring out.
One of those orders was a drink refill for the American. Jónína wasn't giving her a refund or a free meal, but she was conceding on free refills, which annoyed Sören, but he understood this customer was exactly the kind of person who would leave a bad review out of spite, so Jónína was trying to save face; Sören had a feeling the hateful American tourist would leave a bad review anyway.
"Here you are," Sören said as politely as could be, gingerly setting the drink down in front of the woman, handing her a straw. "Enjoy."
The woman promptly knocked her drink over, spilling it all over herself, and then she stood up, pointed at Sören and yelled, "THIS BRAT POURED MY DRINK ON ME!"
Sören's mouth opened. It was one thing for the customer to contest her own error with the menu, and for Jónína to be firm that Sören had done nothing wrong. But accusing Sören of deliberately pouring a drink on her... that could get him fired. And with the current economic crisis being what it was, Sören was lucky to have a job. Trying to find another job in this climate on such short notice...
"GET THE MANAGER! I WANT THIS BRAT FIRED! I WANT THE POLICE, POURING MY DRINK ON ME WAS AN ASSAULT!"
Jónína came out from the back without being prompted; she'd clearly heard the woman yell all the way down there. Before Jónína could step in, the singer came forward, arms folded, and shook his head. "She's lying," he said. "I saw the whole thing. The waiter didn't do that."
Jónína turned to the tourist, nostrils flaring, face pink, dark eyes flashing. "You," she said. "You get out, now, before I call the police on you." She pointed to the door.
The customer sniffed, stood up, and flounced out with her nose in the air. Sören glanced at the table out of force of habit, even though he already knew the customer wasn't going to leave a tip. "She didn't pay -"
"Jæja, well, at least she's gone." Jónína clapped him on the shoulder. "Why don't you take your break early, já?"
Sören wasn't going to say no to that; he was all nerves. He went to the back again, and out the back door, sitting on the bench behind the restaurant. His hands were shaking. Sören had quit smoking cigarettes in 2006 and he suddenly wanted one very, very badly.
Then he wasn't alone. There was the singer again. Sören got a good look at him - the man was taller than him by almost a foot, lean but muscular, imposing-looking. Today he was wearing a Pink Floyd "Dark Side Of The Moon" T-shirt with jeans and his Doc Martens. The singer just leaned against the back wall of the restaurant and gave Sören a nod. "Hey."
"Hey." Sören took a deep breath and tried to smile. "Thanks for standing up for me in there."
"It was the right thing to do."
Sören frowned and decided to go there before the singer did. "So was giving you that money."
"I didn't need it. I play for the love of it, not because I'm trying to get donations. That was what I wanted to talk to you about. When I saw you work here, I figured out you need that money more than I do. How about I buy you dinner, or drinks, or something?"
Sören's frown deepened. "I don't need your charity."
"It's not charity. If you appreciated my music that much, you're someone I'd like to get to know."
Their eyes met, and there was that petrichor, sea salt, and musk smell again. Sören couldn't help wondering if there was more to that statement about getting to know him. Sören couldn't help hoping - the guy was sexy as hell, and it had been a few months now since Sören had gotten laid. He was overworked, too tired, and too socially tapped out from dealing with the public to try to go out and meet people. As it was, he barely had the energy for this... but he was intrigued.
He found himself nodding. "All right."
"When would you like to get together? I'd ask if tonight works for you -"
"Tonight I need to..." Sören gave a nervous laugh, ran a hand through his nape-length black curls, rubbed his short dark beard. "I can't deal with people tonight after the bullshit today, I'm sorry. But... I work fewer hours tomorrow, Tuesday, so maybe then?"
"That works for me." The man pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, and a pen, and jotted his cell number down. Then he handed it to Sören, who tore off the sheet, and added his own number to the next page. When Sören passed the notebook back, the man glanced down, then back at Sören, and said, "I didn't get your name."
"Sorry. I'm Sören."
"That's kind of an old-fashioned name, isn't it?"
"Jæja, I was named for my great-grandfather. And Kierkegaard." Sören gave another nervous laugh. Like anybody fucking knows who Kierkegaard is anymore. Sören felt that all-too-frequent self-conscious feeling about what a nerd he was, nose always in a book.
"What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful," the musician quoted.
Sören broke out in gooseflesh like he had at the performance - here was someone who got it. It felt like bells and whistles were going off in his head, like he'd found "one of his kind". "Yes," Sören said simply.
The man smiled. "I'm Magni."
"Nice to meet you, Magni. Tuesday night, then?"
"How does seven PM sound? I'll call you before then to confirm?"
"It sounds good."
"I'll leave you to your break and let you get some peace and quiet," Magni said, giving a little wave before he walked off.
Sören tried not to watch the tight ass in those jeans. There is no peace. Sören was dreading going back in there and dealing with more customers, all too soon.
At least he had something to look forward to, now.
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