Page 6 of The Meet Queue-t

“I can’t imagine you with purple hair.” Or any colour hair that isn’t brown, honestly. It suits him, the brown, adds to the glasses and the turtleneck and the professor chic vibes he’s got going on. I can’t picture him in anything else. Like he was born a little serious and a little cute.

“Hang on, let me show you.” He rifles in his pocket for his phone as we move steadily onwards. We’re making good time. Maybe we’ll see the Queen before sunrise and I can get the closure I need without spending my entire birthday on it.

I wrap my arms around myself as I think. Tomorrow is Thursday, and I took it off from work. Technically, I also work Fridays and Saturdays, but I know Granny will understand if I need more time. She’s good like that, gruff but surprisingly emotionally resonant.

Oblivious to my inner thoughts and the morbid turn they’ve taken, Oliver thrusts his screen in my face. “Here.”

The man in the picture looks to be in his early twenties and is about as far as it’s possible to get from the history lecturer in front of me. He’s wearing eyeliner and his long hair is swept up in a long wave that sinks slowly over his head. The spikes look hard with hair gel, and honestly, I’m impressed they’re staying in place. He’s also wearing a ripped T-shirt and chains on his black jeans. Metal-studded leather bands wrap around his wrists.

It’s a statement. One I can’t reconcile with the watch-wearing man in front of me.

“This is different,” I say after a moment, glancing between the two versions of him to pick out the similarities. His eyes are the same, brown and liquid, and the shape of his jaw and mouth is the same. But the rest . . . not so much. “Wow. I mean . . . Wow.”

He eyes me cautiously. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“I didn’t know you had it in you. Although your hair isbarelypurple.”

“It’s definitely purple,” he says with a grin. “Let me find another photo.”

I have no objection to seeing more goth Oliver—which is the least goth name I can think of—and when he hands me another picture, I take the phone eagerly. His hair is indeed a rich shade of purple, brought out by the sun, and in this one he’s standing with his arm around a girl. She’s sporting bright red hair and a wide smile. They look happy.

“Okay,” I admit. “Purple hair.”

“Thankyou.”

“Why did you abandon your goth phase?” Into somethingsodifferent.

“I kept it for undergrad, but when I started my PhD and taught other students, I decided I should look more professional.”

The turtleneck and coat combodoeslook good. He looks professional. But there’s something about the man in the picture, about the way he smiles, that makes me think the current version isn’t embracing every part of himself.

“It’s your body,” I say after a few seconds, trying to judge my words and weigh them before I toss them in his direction. “If it makes you happy, and you express some part of yourself through whatever, I think you should go for it.”

“Not sure the faculty would agree.”

“Screw them. Metaphorically speaking,” I add. “Probably don’t actually screw them. That right ruin that whole ‘air of professionalism’ you’re going for.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into his lopsided smile. “I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks for the invaluable career advice.”

“When you change because it’s what other people expect, I think you lose pieces of yourself.” Before I can say anything more and embarrass myself, I tap the girl in the picture. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“She was.” He takes the phone back and stares at the couple on the screen for a second before exiting the photos app and locking it again. “We dated for most of uni, but broke up when we went our separate ways.”

I sneak a look at his left hand to see if there’s any sign of a wedding ring—nothing, not even a tan line. “Ah, that sucks.”

“It happens.” He doesn’t look too cut up about it. “She moved to Finland anyway, so.”

“Oh. Huh. Finland.” I try to picture what I know about Finland, which is very little. It’s cold there. They speak Finnish. That’s about it.

“What about you? Do you have a partner?”

“Me? No.” I laugh, then laugh harder, because after Brandon-the-dick-fiancé-who-cheated, my attempts at dating have been . . . notenormouslysuccessful, let’s say. “No, not even a little bit. I don’t exactly have the best luck with men.”

He looks genuinely surprised, which is sweet. “Really?”

“Dating is hard. I’m not very good at it.”

“I don’t believe that.”

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