Blue Eyes and Beating Hearts.
A Mills & Swoon Modern Short.
In the polished glass corridors of London’s trendier office districts, there exists a species of woman who has learned to walk quickly.
Quickly past coffee queues, cyclists, and, most efficiently of all, quickly past inconvenient human realities wherever her Manowla heels clicked on London's sidewalks.
Charlotte Briggs was one of these women.
At thirty-five she possessed excellent hair, excellent shoes, and an excellent job in public relations—an industry that specialised in polishing other people’s reputations while quietly eroding one’s own soul.
Every morning she stepped out of the tube station, checked her phone, and moved with professional determination toward the gleaming lobby of the agency where she worked. The tall black glass like a judgement on those that could not enter.
"Big Issue, madam."
Charlotte as usual declined not really sure what the Big Issue was exactly but well aware that sellers were usually down on their luck.
Charlotte was not unkind. She had been taught to be kind and gracious but she always had meetings.
Her boyfriend, Oliver, had often remarked that she possessed an admirable ability to “filter distractions.”
Oliver was a financial analyst, which meant he had never filtered anything more morally complicated than a spreadsheet.
Charlotte tolerated him with the mild patience one reserves for reliable appliances. She was expecting him to propose in around six months, she would say yes to shut her parents up, two babies in two years, wam, bam thankyou mam. She would turn around and they would be gone and she would be left with the analyst.
Her life was as predictable as death.
It was raining—one of those London drizzles that appears designed purely to destroy a Vidal Sassoon hair appointment. Charlotte was juggling an umbrella, a phone call, and the vague dread of a nine-o’clock pitch meeting when it happened.
She actually bought the Big Issue.
"Oh, I wasn't expecting that." He appologised and taking her money glanced into Charlotte's eyes. Then something weird happened. It was subtle but huge, invisible but energised. A twinge originating from some unknown part of her brain that sent messages to every neuron, every cell, and bounced around searching for a place to rest.
Blue, his eyes were the bluest blue like an Albanian sea and a Brazilian sky. An azurean tsunami of passion and waves that could fell trees, and more to the point, women.
Charlotte dropped her gaze immediately and hurried inside the building.
Ridiculous, she thought.
Entirely ridiculous.
After all, the man was unemployed. Probably living in a shelter. Maybe even in rehab.
Oliver, who owned twenty nearly identical suits, believed passion was something that one scheduled annually on holiday. But his reliability and ambition were central to a controlled future.
Still, the next morning Charlotte found herself glancing toward the pavement before she even reached the office.
He was there, the man with Blue eyes. Sketchbook balanced on his knee. A small pile of magazines beside him.
He caught her glance and smiled—not eagerly, not pleadingly, a simple smile and a flutter of lashes teased the blue into her morning. And so it went on, a morning ritual with Blue, it probably wasn't his name but that is what she called him. A nod, a smile, and a new copy whenever the Big Issue came out.
Three months later Charlotte discovered Oliver cheating on her with a yoga instructor named Celeste. A frenemy sent her an image of them wrapped around each other in glittery lycra like some alien insect.
Under the instagram photo “Last night's yoga class was incredible.”
There is something uniquely humiliating about heartbreak in your mid-thirties. One feels old enough to know better and young enough to still care.
By the time Charlotte reached the office the next morning her eyes were swollen and her dignity was hanging by a thread. But at least she would not be seen dead in glittery lycra.
Blue looked up.
“Rough morning?” he asked gently.
Charlotte laughed once—a broken sound that cracked into sobs.
“My boyfriend,” she said vaguely, “appears to have developed extracurricular hobbies. Yoga, to be specific, with a leggy woman in pink lycra”
Blue closed his sketchbook.
I tell you what, this is my last day, let's celebrate in the pub.
“Last day?”
“I got a job.”
Charlotte blinked.
“Oh, congratulations, doing what?”
"I sold my book, London publisher, they even gave me a PR agent...." Blue was laughing. His eyes reflecting the sun like mirrors into her soul."
He tilted his head.
“Come for a drink with me.”
Charlotte stared at him.
“You don’t even know me.”
“True,” he said. “But you look like someone who could use a cheer-up drink. And I happen to be in a celebratory mood.”
She hesitated.
Then, quite unexpectedly, she heard herself say:
“Alright then.”
The drink became two.
The two became three.
By ten o’clock they had wandered into a tiny bar in Soho where someone was hosting an open-mic poetry night.
Charlotte, who was now pleasantly drunk, found the entire situation thrilling.
"This is my first time," she said.
Blue smiled. "Needless to say, I have been around the block a few times."
They both laughed at the insinuation. Later Blue was on the small stage with the intimate crowd sharing in the joy of his presence.
The poem was about a woman who moved through the world too quickly.
About a woman with sharp heels and sharper intelligence who pretended not to notice kindness because it disrupted her schedule.
About a woman whose sadness sat behind perfectly applied lipstick.
Charlotte felt something dangerous happen inside her chest.
The room had gone quiet.
And when he finished, every person in the bar applauded.
Charlotte was staring at him, swooning pathetically like a teenager and drinking with the panic of lust suddenly exposed.
Later that night Blue walked her home.
When she reached the bed she collapsed sideways, still wearing one shoe. Blue gently removed the shock red Manolo and covered her with a blanket.
Then he quietly left leaving the poem on the bedside table.
When Charlotte woke the next morning she had a headache, mascara on the pillow, and the terrible suspicion that she had embarrassed herself in Soho.
The days were back to normal and a few days went by.
Where could she find Blue. No phone number, no address, no Instagram. And Blue wasn't even his real name!
Charlotte asked the man at the ethnic street food wagon. Then the new Big Issue seller, and she even rang the Big Issue head office.
They were sympathetic but firm.
“Data protection,” the woman explained. “If we see him we’ll pass along your message, but we can’t give you any details.”
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Charlotte tried to return to normal life.
But she found she hated her job.
Hated her empty flat.
And hated the quiet absence outside the office doors each morning.
Some nights she fell asleep clutching the poem. By now she knew it by heart.
Then one evening she stepped out of the building and stopped.
He was standing across the street.
Except he no longer looked like the man she remembered.
And his posture carried the relaxed confidence of someone entirely at home in the world.
He crossed the street slowly.
Charlotte stared.
“You disappeared,” she said.
"I seem to be in high demand, " he laughed.
Then he stepped closer.
The blue eyes washed her with an indescribable urge and they kissed.
“Charlotte,” he said gently, “would you like to go on a date? No pressure, no promises, and definitely no unsolicited poems, unless you ask of course.”
Charlotte studied him for a moment.
Then she smiled. "I hereby consent to you writing me love poems for the rest of my days."
©2026 Sarnia de la Maré
