Emma Watson

The first thing I think of when someone says "Fan Fiction" is bad sci-fi. 
The second thing that comes to mind is awkward erotica.  Hence the following submission.


For nearly ten minutes I watched Emma Watson eat what appeared to be a chef salad. My table was relatively far from hers, so I wasn’t worried about being spotted. Typically people don’t notice me anyway. I’m very overlookable.


My server, however, noticed the two empty pint glasses in front of me and graciously offered me a third beer. I nodded and pushed the plate of fries away, then added, “and another of whatever the young lady is drinking.”

Damien, as identified by his nametag, raised his eyes to look in her direction, then back at me.

“Best of luck to you,” he said dryly, and headed towards the kitchen.

She appeared to be finished with her meal and was now poking away at a small red phone pulled from her purse. Her lips began to curve into a smile. What was she thinking? My heart pounded as Damien approached her table with the drink. It was blue with a wedge of lemon. Emma looked up in surprise at the delivery of the mysterious beverage and exchanged a few words with the server. He pointed at me.

I did my best to look simultaneously dashing and casual as she looked my way. She was squinting as if trying to discern who I was, then that hesitant smile again. The server left, forgetting my beer.

Some part of my brain interpreted this unfortunate turn of events as an opportunity and my body subsequently rose from my chair, brushed the fry crumbs from my lap and began walking the epic thirty feet to Emma Watson’s table. My stomach was a corroded tank of kerosene. My armpits were tacky with nervous sweat. I was hyperaware of my limbs gangling and swinging back and forth. I imagined a small squad of merciful snipers stationed around the restaurant with Barret M82A1s trained on me and mentally asked them to please just end this nightmarish embarrassment now. But once you start these things, gangly and awkward as you may be, you must finish them.

And then I found myself at her table saying, “Hi. I’m Jim. I saw you sitting over here and…”

Her lovely brown eyes seemed to envelope me and I froze as panic began to take hold. Her expression exuded apprehension. Who was this creep? What does he want from me? I fidgeted uncontrollably. Crashing and burning.

Then the sound of Hot Chocolate’s 1975 hit “You Sexy Thing” erupted from the jukebox and I was suddenly catapulted from my stupor. Life and light and confidence rushed back into me and I spoke.

“I think all the Harry Potter movies are complete shit and have probably lowered the collective IQ of children and adults all over the world.”

Emma took a slow sip from her very blue drink, licked her lips and then carefully set the glass down.

“However,” I added, “this is in no way your fault. I’ve always greatly admired your work…and figured you’d grow up to be a total hotcakes.”

“God,” she exclaimed, “finally somebody who gets it.” Her eyes flicked down to my crotch. “You want to get out of here?” she cooed.

“Do I.”

She slammed the remainder of her cocktail and I took her by the hand, leading her out of the bar and only pausing to land a punch square on Damien’s lip.