Fan Fic: An Encounter With Ryan Gosling
WENN.com
It was that Saturday after the snowstorm when the streets edged with dirty, grey slush. I trudged through the snow and crowds down Broadway to my local café, where I thought my favorite brunch would distract me from both the cold and the fact that my phone had been painfully quiet all weekend. He hadn’t called and I hadn’t called him. My feet were freezing and I was taking it personally.
In my seat at the café, the smell of coffee mingled nicely with the crispness of the air and I wrapped my hands around the mug to warm myself. There’s something so hopeful about breakfast, I thought. The smells and colors are so bright; it’s a meal with promise, like starting over. I have a tendency for the maudlin when I am being neglected by a guy.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I jumped so excitedly, I was actually embarrassed. But it was only an email. And not even a good one. The Internet was taunting me. I put the phone on the table and gave it a willful stare, knowing how pathetic I looked, knowing how pathetic I felt, and while I registered the presence of someone being sat at the table next to me, it was at least 10 minutes and a second cup of coffee until I realized that I was sitting a foot away from Ryan Gosling.
He was so close I could see the softness in his face and the sleepiness in his eyes. So close I could hear the bristling of his stubble as he scratched at his beard; I was so close that when he ordered his food the familiarity of his voice made me both smile and feel like passing out. When my food arrived, I panicked. I couldn’t possibly eat in front of Ryan Gosling, could I?
I attempted chewing and swallowing while he flipped through his paper. He folded it neatly and read it in tidy sections, aware of the space he was taking. I caught sideway glances while trying to eat an egg white omelet in the sexiest, most fascinating way I could conjure. I thought about sitting at a kitchen table with Ryan Gosling, wiping the sleepiness from his face while I brewed coffee and cracked eggs into a pan. Occasionally, he would look up from the paper and watch me as I hummed contentedly, retrieving items from the fridge, chopping fresh herbs and toasting brioche. I would dole out my affection like warm butter, showing my love in the sweet hope of a meal to fill our bellies and prepare us for a day probably thinking about art or reading scripts in our pajamas. I think we were in Paris, too, though I’m not sure why.
I hadn’t realized that I had stopped eating and was staring at my phone — the montage playing in my head, which was cocked like a confused puppy — until Ryan Gosling, himself, spoke up.
“You know that saying about a watched pot…” he said, quietly, with a bit of enjoyment edging into a smile as he pointed at my phone.
I laughed; dorkily, I’m afraid. I was worried I had food in my teeth. He waited for a response and I could hear him inhale.
“Easy for you to say,” I lost my breath as the words came out.
He looked at me eagerly, like he was waiting for details. I wanted to blather on about how the guy and I had a great time when we went out, how there were many moments of soft, easy intimacy, that he spoke in the future tense and at the end of the night my face hurt from smiling and I went to bed contentedly thinking about the Spring and holding hands, and there were montages. So many montages.
But all I could say was, “I guess he doesn’t want to be with me.”
The words landed with a thud, and I was devastated that I just looked like a total lovesick doofus in front of Ryan Gosling. He looked at his paper and sipped at his coffee. I pecked at what was left of my brunch and contemplated running from the room.
“Maybe he’s dead,” he said and nodded at my phone.
There was a sly smirk on his face as he looked at me and I laughed so hard and long and with such relief that I didn’t even notice my phone lighting up.
Post from: Crushable
