Writer’s Shop Talk: My Twist on the ‘Meet Cute’ Trope

On Writing and Storytelling: Upending a Least Favorite Trope

What is your least favorite trope? How would you work it into something you’d like to read?

Though I’m not an avid reader of romance novels, I have seen my fair share of romantic comedies and a handful of dramas with love stories woven in, so the “meet cute” trope isn’t lost on me. As with any narrative device, if executed well, it can be incredibly effective – just look at the charming encounter between Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal’s characters in Rob Reiner’s When Harry Met Sally….

While the “meet cute” trope isn’t my least favorite to watch (or read), it’s certainly one of the most challenging to execute masterfully. Even if I didn’t intentionally craft such a beginning for the part of the novel where a 35-year-old Jim Garraty appears more confident than his 18-year-old self, I think I stumbled upon my finest take on this trope when Jim encounters Maddie in Reunion: Coda.

1

Enter Maddie

It’s noisy here. Then again, big-city nightclubs aren’t supposed to be quiet. Especially on a Friday night. And especially when they’re the new hotspot in the “city that doesn’t sleep.”

Take the Moonglow nightclub, for instance.

I’m nursing a beer at the Moonglow, an old-school joint in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg neighborhood. The place is decked out with relics from the Second World War – flags, helmets, propaganda posters. The walls scream out warnings from another time: “Loose Lips Sink Ships” and “The Man Who Relaxes is Helping the Axis.” The tables are a mishmash of wood and metal, cluttered with antique radios and telephones. Pre-recorded swing music and the murmur of conversation fill the air.

The Swinging Millers are taking five, but the music never stops. A tinny recording of “Moonlight Serenade” drifts from the speakers. It’s Friday night and I need to unwind from the pressure of being a semi-renowned World War II historian. I’ve penned a few books on the subject and I’m always in demand for lectures and interviews. Some folks liken me to a “young Stephen Ambrose,” but I’m not that well-known. Only hardcore history buffs would give me a second glance on the street.

I also hold down a gig at Columbia University, where I impart my knowledge to hundreds of eager minds. I enjoy passing on my passion for history, but there’s never enough time to connect with my students. My research and writing keep me busy.

I glance at the bottle of Heineken in my hand, feeling the chill of the condensation on my fingers. It’s a new nightclub, and I’m curious to see what it’s like. I’m not here to hook up, but I wouldn’t mind some company. Maybe someone who shares my passion for history. Someone who appreciates the stories behind the facts. Someone who can make me laugh and think at the same time.

That’s when I hear her voice. “Excuse me,” she says, “is this seat taken?”

Her accent is refined and elegant, like a cross between FDR and a British aristocrat. I swivel around and there she is, clutching a bag stuffed with books from Book Culture—that quaint little bookstore on Broadway. Her hair is the color of caramel, cascading in loose waves that brush her shoulders with a gentle grace. Her hazel eyes, framed by arched brows, are windows to her soul, expressive and vibrant. They catch the club’s dim lights, reflecting a spectrum of warm colors. Her heart-shaped face is turned slightly, the soft contours of her cheeks tapering to a delicate chin, giving her an air of approachability. Her lips, reminiscent of a Gibson girl’s, hold a promise of a smile that could light up the darkest corners of any room. She’s wearing a sky-blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. She’s breathtaking.

And she’s a complete stranger.

But something about her reminds me of someone I used to know.

As she steps closer, I catch a whiff of her perfume – jasmine and orange blossom – delicate and exotic yet somehow familiar. That scent…I remember it from…South Miami?

I shake my head and dismiss the thought almost as soon as it flashes into my brain. Take it easy, Jim, I chide myself. That’s just the beer talking.

A jolt of attraction and curiosity hits me like a freight train. Who is she? What brings her here? Does she know who I am? Is she interested?

“Is this seat taken?” she asks again, shifting the heavy bag of books in her arms. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to put this down before I drop it. It’s a hazard, you know. Someone could trip over it and get hurt.” She smiles politely, but I can tell she’s not used to being ignored. Her voice is crisp and confident, with a touch of FDR’s patrician accent mixed with the late Princess Diana’s. I snap out of my trance and gesture at the chair across from me. “Sorry, no, it’s not. Please, sit down.”

She nods her thanks and slides into the chair with grace. She looks down at the floor to check if it’s not wet, sticky, or worse, then places the bag of books under the table, making sure it’s out of the way. She looks around the crowded nightclub with curiosity and excitement. She seems like a fish out of water in this place, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She turns her attention back to me and smiles again. “So,” she says, “what brings you here?

“I’m here for the music,” I say, shrugging. “I love the Big Band era. Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, Artie Shaw, Benny Goodman… They don’t make them like that anymore.” I point at the stage where the Swinging Millers are about to resume their performance. “And this place has a great vibe. It’s called Moonglow, after all.”

She meets my gaze and smiles. “It does,” she says.

“You’re a swing fan, too?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” she says. “I prefer classical music, but I’m not picky about genres. It depends on my mood, really.”

“I enjoy classical music as well. Beethoven is my favorite, but I also like Bizet, Albeniz, Rodrigo, and Brahms.”

“Those are some of my favorite composers. Who else do you like?”

I hum a few bars of a familiar melody, tapping my fingers on the table. The Moonglow is buzzing with chatter and laughter, but I don’t mind. I like the atmosphere. I look at her and see a spark in her eyes. She knows the tune.

“Mozart, right?” she says, leaning in. “The flute and harp concerto?”

I nod, impressed by her musical knowledge. “You have a good ear,” I say, grinning. “It’s one of my favorites.”

She grins back and tilts her head slightly. “Mine too,” she says softly. “It’s so beautiful and romantic.”