“So, other than writing, what do you do for fun?” Katya asked, and then took a drink from her pot of beer. It was about 1:30 PM and the fact that she was happy to be drinking beers at this time of day was a good sign. I love beer and thus enjoy the company of other beer enthusiasts.

“I listen to music a lot. I go to movies, go op-shopping, drink beer. All the usual stuff. Yourself?”

“I sing. Most all of my time is spent writing songs or painting.”

Katya was doing a course in Arts. She said her best songs come to her when she is painting. She wanted to discuss my writing, which I would usually have been all too keen to do – but not this time. I didn’t want to talk about myself; I just wanted to hear about her. Everything.

She was from a single parent family, like me, but under more extreme circumstances. She never knew her father, I just didn’t like mine. Apparently her Dad had left her mother as soon as he found out she was pregnant. She was telling me this with complete calm. I had to ask:

“Doesn’t that really piss you off? I’m furious just hearing about it.”

She didn’t reply. Her eyes dropped and she gazed at her now-empty pot for a while. She ordered another and upon its arrival, took a large swig. Then she was ready to answer me.

“It makes me mad. Madder than you’ll ever know. I just prefer not to think or talk about it. It just makes me depressed.”

“Sorry.” I said, regretting my inquiry. We were silent for a time; eventually the silence was broken by gentle humming, coming from Katya. She had her eyes closed and seemed to be almost in a trance. I listened for a while, her humming sounded beautiful. About a minute into the song, she opened her eyes and seemingly broke back into reality. Her eyes were wide as she looked at me embarrassed. I could tell what was going through her mind so I quickly reassured her.

“It’s okay. It sounded nice. What was it?”

She was a little reluctant to answer, but she did anyway.

“It’s just a song I wrote when I was a kid. About my father.”

I didn’t know exactly what to say next, so I abandoned any premeditated game plan and just went with my instinct.

“Can I hear it? With words, I mean.”

She looked at me silently mutely for a moment, then down at her bag. She picked it up and put a hand inside it. From it she pulled a little notebook and a pen. She began scribbling into it as I watched. She wrote for a few minutes before tearing out the page she was penning on, folding it up, and handing it to me.

“Don’t read it yet.” She said. “Wait until later, when I’m not around.”

“Okay.” I obliged.

Again we were silent. We had reached such a point in the conversation where neither felt comfortable delving further, yet we were so deeply entrenched in a serious topic that it was impossible to return to small-talk. So, as much as I resented it, I said:

“Well, I should probably try to catch the last half of my lecture.”

Katya seemed somewhat relieved that the date was coming to an end. She was uncomfortable with what he had started talking about, I thought.

We said our goodbyes and exchanged phone numbers and then separated. On the tram home I took out the note she had written me. It was a song. I presumed the one she was humming.

I spent the next few hours debating whether or not to call her. In the end, I decided not. Instead I wrote in my journal and attempted to elucidate my thoughts.

The way I figured, the first date was not the whole chess game, but rather the beginning. We’d felt each other out and gotten an idea of what we were each like, but as for the next move, I was unsure. My premeditated moves had been blown out of the water – and I was ecstatic.

There is nothing more involving than a mystery.