Football singularity-Chapter 735: Chater Birthday Date

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~~~

[2021-04-19 | Hitdorf Harbour Area Leverkusen | 18:25 CET]

Along the Rhine River, two figures could be seen slowly walking the paved path, their bodies almost merged with one another. The woman appeared to have walked straight out of a cover shoot, her white lace dress catching the golden hour light, fluttering gently in the evening breeze. Her peach-blonde hair was styled in loose waves that cascaded past her shoulders, where a charcoal-grey tailored blazer hung, keeping her warm.

Beside her walked a young man dressed in a neat white linen shirt, beige chino trousers, and Cognac Loafers. His high-top fade was freshly shaped, and a thin gold chain glinted at his neck. His hand was interlaced with hers, his thumb occasionally brushing against her knuckles.

The Hitdorf Harbour walkpath stretched before them, recently reopened as COVID restrictions gradually eased. Other couples and families dotted the pathway, taking advantage of the pleasant spring evening. Small boats bobbed in the harbour, and across the river, the lights of Düsseldorf were beginning to twinkle as the sun dipped lower.

"You know," May said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I still can’t believe you dragged me to that sushi place. You hate fish."

"I tolerate fish," Rakim corrected, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "You know how much fish my nutritionist makes me eat. Plus, you love sushi, and what I hate a bout the sushi part is the raw chicken. Chicken is meant to be boiled, grilled, fried, and put into kababs, definitely not eaten raw. Humans discovered fire for a reason."

"You say that, but I saw your face when the waiter brought out the omakase platter," May teased, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. "You looked like you were being held hostage."

"That octopus thing was looking at me," he defended. "It still had tentacles. That’s not food, that’s a horror movie prop, but I guess it’s better than the French, who gave up pretence of trying to cover up a scam and just overcharge you for living creatures."

"Hahahah, remember that school trip to Paris, Liam was so proud of the French he had picked up in class and decided he didn’t need the English menu?" May laughed, the sound of her voice light and genuine, drawing curious glances their way, but she didn’t mind. "The look of horror on his face when we all got stew, braised chicken, slow-cooked duck leg and the waiter opened his tray revealing 7 snails just crawling along the lights salad."

"Hahah, his soul left his body," Rakim said, shaking his head at the memory. "He tried to play it off, but the moment one of them tried to crawl off his plate, it was all he could do to gag to stop himself from throwing up."

"He gave them all to Mr Harrison," May added, wiping a tear from her eye. "Our history teacher just ate them without blinking. Didn’t even flinch."

"That man was built different," Rakim agreed. "Remember when he told us about growing up in rural Scotland? He said he’d eaten haggis since he was five. After that, nothing phases you."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of water lapping against the harbour wall mixing with distant conversations and the cry of gulls overhead. The golden hour was in full effect now—the sun hung low on the horizon, painting everything in warm amber and rose gold.

May leaned into him slightly, her head resting on his shoulder, causing the blazer to slip down her shoulder slightly. Rakim adjusted it without thinking, pulling it back up, letting his arm wrap around her waist. She smiled at the gesture as her focus shifted to the sound of his heart, thudding in a steady rhythm.

"You’re being very gentlemanly tonight," she observed. "Should I be worried?"

"C’mon, when am I not a gentleman?" Rakim replied, feigning offence. "Wait, better not to answer that question. I don’t want my dark history to be pulled up."

"Heheh, Probably wise because what they say about women being vengeful is true." She said her mouth curving slyly before the sound of music from thirty meters ahead caught her attention. "Let’s check that out"

They both stopped in front of a street performer who stood near a lamp post, his instrument gleaming under the warm light. A small crowd had gathered around him, swaying gently to the soulful notes of a saxophone that floated in the evening breeze. May’s breath caught in her throat as she recognised the song immediately.

"*La Vie en Rose*," she whispered, her voice much softer, sounding almost fragile.

Rakim felt her hold around him tighten, causing him to avert his eyes and focus on her. He glanced at her face and saw that her eyes had misted slightly, though she was smiling. "Your mom’s favourite," he said quietly.

"Yeah," May said, nodding. She blinked a few times, composing herself. "My earliest memory is her playing it constantly. In the car, in the kitchen while cooking, and sometimes even at dinner. I used to love dancing to it with her."

They stood there for a moment, just listening to the saxophonist’s smooth, expressive notes conveying emotion. "Well, do you want to dance?" He asked her, holding out his right hand to her.

"Well, thank you, Mr Rex," She said, performing a short lady’s courtesy before holding out her hand, which Rakim accepted with a bow and a small peck. "Oh, what a gentleman."

The two of them began a slow waltz at the edge of the crowd, not caring too much about the correct posture and looking elegant. May leaned her head against his chest, closing her eyes as they moved to the music. Rakim’s palm settled against the small of her back. May let herself follow the gentle pull of his lead. The saxophone’s notes wrapped around them like silk, rising and falling in soft, romantic waves.

The crowd kept a respectful distance, focused on themselves as they continued to watch the saxophonist. They stayed immersed in that moment for three long minutes, not even noticing when the music had changed. They watched him play another song before Rakim walked forward and placed a fifty-euro note into the open saxophone case on the ground.

"Thank you, young man," The man in his fifties with greying temples and kind eyes—nodded graciously, his voice warm.

"Beautiful playing," Rakim replied in German.

~~~

They walked for another few minutes, the saxophone melody still faint in the distance. The path curved slightly, bringing them closer to the water’s edge. A few small vendor stalls had set up along the walkway—jewellery, handmade crafts, flowers.

As they passed a flower stall, a young girl—no older than ten—stepped forward, holding a bouquet of red roses. She wore a simple blue dress and had her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. "Excuse me," she said in a hopeful tone, her voice polite but nervous. "Would you like to buy flowers for the lady? They’re fresh, picked this morning."

May glanced at the bouquet—a dozen roses wrapped in intricate white paper held together by a pink bow. They were beautiful, deep crimson petals still dewy.

"How much?" May asked gently in German.

"Ten euros," the girl said, then added quickly: "They’re my last ones. I’ve been here since three o’clock."

Rakim was already reaching for his wallet. "We’ll take them."

The girl’s face lit up. "Really?"

"Really," Rakim confirmed, handing her a twenty-euro note. "Keep the change."

"Thank you!" the girl exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes. She handed the bouquet to May with both hands, beaming. "Have a wonderful evening!"

"You too," May said warmly, accepting the flowers.

The girl waved as they walked away, then immediately started packing up her small stall. May held the bouquet close, inhaling the scent. "You’re going to spoil me at this rate."

"That’s the plan," Rakim said, draping his arm over her shoulders again. "Besides, you deserve it. It’s your birthday."

"Hmmm, thank you," she murmured barely above a whisper, but with how close they were, Rakim heard her clearly, causing his smile to blossom further.

They continued walking, the roses cradled in May’s arm like a trophy. The evening air was cooler now, the breeze carrying the scent of water and distant food stalls. And a few minutes later, they rounded a bend and spotted a small crêpe stand nestled between two trees.

The stand was painted bright yellow, with a hand-painted sign that read: **Crêpe Meister Wolfgang– Handmade with Love**. Judging by the long line, the man was popular. An older man with a thick moustache and a chef’s apron stood behind the counter, expertly flipping a crêpe on a hot griddle.

The smell was intoxicating—butter, sugar, fresh batter doing all the advertising the man needed. "We have to get one," May said immediately, already pulling Rakim toward the stand.

"I knew you’d say that," Rakim said, grinning. "What do you want?"

May scanned the menu board. "Strawberry with whipped cream."

"Banana and Nutella for me," Rakim said, stepping up to the counter after patiently waiting 5 minutes. He ordered, and the man nodded enthusiastically, already reaching for the ingredients.

They watched as he worked—spreading the batter in a perfect circle, adding sliced strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream to one, bananas and Nutella to the other, then folding them with practised precision. He wrapped each in parchment paper and handed them over with a proud smile.

"Enjoy, young lovers," he said in German.

"Thank you," they said in unison, then laughed.

Rakim paid, and they walked away from the stand, each holding their crêpe. May took a bite of hers, closing her eyes as she chewed.

"Oh my God," she murmured. "This is so good."

Rakim tried his, nodding in approval. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

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TO BE CONTINUED...