Centercity Philadelphia, part one

They meet in a coffee shop in centercity Philadelphia. The shop is hipster, filled with college students and middle aged artists and engineers with attention-grabbing clothes, tattoos and piercings. There's a large lowered coffee table to seat about nine. Heather, Teddy, and Evan sit down after ordering the thing they need to justify staying in the warmth. It’s December 31st, New Year’s Eve, and our friend’s personal adventure is about to take a turn for the better. 

He sits down with his drink next to the three. He’s nervous. He’s been told that she will be here, and they’ve never met. He sees some girls walk in as they go order their hot cocoas, and he wonders if one of them is her. He’s tried to look her up online and her privacy restrictions must have made it impossible, or she has no online profile… but it’s no matter; it’s better this way. Total clean start. Zero expectations. Pure conversation. Perhaps connection. All he knows is, her name is Olivia.

Though he knew one other thing she didn’t, which gave him a privy position. He knew she was French, and that she wanted to move back one day. He knew that he studied French in school and failed out, but also had family over there and would love to move to Europe to see them more. Finally learn the language. Maybe learn a few more. Explore. He had his mind on the long game and was hoping to play his cards right. His friends were hoping to set them up; he's trying to beat them to the punch.

She comes and sits down with her friend and their cocoas. They’re talking, and he hasn’t met either of them. His friend, Teddy, plays the wingman. and they turn over to introduce themselves.

"Hi, I'm Blake, you may know Christian here, what're your names?"

"Olivia" they respond, in unison. They look at one another and laugh. "Wait, your both named Olivia? That's crazy, haha; where are you from?" Scrambling for questions to make some sort of distinction, our friend Blake thinks they're both cute, and both could be French! Neither had an obvious foreign flair; one with a kind yet distinctly American accent, the other with a smooth southern skip and lilt in the laughter. A French girl could be hiding under either of these masquerades. He can't really tell.

Finally Teddy nudges him to the left, to the Olivia I was cheering for, to the one that I had a sneaking suspicion I'd be chasing around for the remainder of the evening. Who's to say, maybe every evening. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.