I saw you last night, in the expanse of my dreams. I laid my eyes on you. I saw your eyes meet mine. You peered into my soul. I saw you as you caressed my lips with yours; so tender, and yet so firm. We held each other in an embrace. Our heartbeats betraying our sentiments. I gazed upon you, and an instant became an eternity. It would be sanctimonious of me to claim this was the first time I fell in love, for I have fallen in love several times; each time a reverie of relish and agony. But I knew in my heart I could have loved you. As if a veil had been lifted from my eyes after a very long time.
A few clouds lazily crept across the face of the moon, enshrouding its glow in a radiant mist of rainbows. It was growing late. Home was calling out to me. Until the moment she appeared.
Like the moon of the 18th night, she lifted the veil to reveal herself, to let her presence be felt. I soaked in her delicate beauty, gazing upon her irradiance like a medieval astronomer raising his forlorn look towards a distant celestial body he can merely observe but which is forever beyond his reach. And what may I have observed? A dazzling smile, sincere as snow, albeit influenced by a dash of intoxicant. Emotions expressed during our inhibited moments, I find, are the sincerest. She walked past me. I stood there. Resigned to fate. A shadow passed over me when just moments earlier I had been shrouded in light; I was nothing more than a hapless stranger.
I still cannot recall what compelled me to turn around that instant, but, for whatever reason, I did. There are times when situations arise from a motley of events that seem too contrived to be coincidental. Like... And there she was. Right beside me, her friend in stride, struggling to put their coats on. That same instant something fell to the ground. I stooped down for it. That would be mine, a voice silken soft, melodic as the resonance of a harp, with a hint of coquettishness spoke up.
My eyes met hers. I turned to stone.
From my hand, outstretched, she collected the little figurine while asking if I found them cute. Another one she pulled out from her purse. I have another hundred and forty-four of these. I wondered why. Her smile was even more amorous when the beholder was also the beholden. She held them out for me for closer scrutiny, with what I presumed was intent. I asked if she wanted a picture taken. The eyes communicate so much. I took a picture, framing her in it, forever imprinting her in the annals of my photographic history.
We started walking. Are you gay? she asked. Alright then! We’re getting personal real fast. No, I replied. Do I seem it? No, but you can never be certain. She laughed. The whole world would have laughed with her once they heard that contagious, charming laugh. We reached the fork in our path: home down one, the night ahead down the other. So what are you? A man. They laughed some more. You know what I mean. I told her my name. Where are you from? Where do you think I’m from? You’re Middle Eastern? Close. What religion do you follow? Am I being interrogated by the religious police? Laughter certainly has its way with intoxicated people.
The fork lay before us, unattended.
What’s your name? Angalina. Courtesy begged me to ask her friend’s name as well. I forgot it the moment after. You know, you look much like Rachel McAdams! Thank you. She smiled. Her perfect smile. I have been told that before, but I don’t quite see it. It’s your eyes. Those dark stars that light my heart on fire.
The gentleman that I am, I offered to walk them to their car. Any reason that would grant me a moment longer with her would have sufficed. Arm in arm, on either side, I escorted them. Where do you work? What do you do? I answered as deftly as I could without bogging our conversation down into trivial details. A software developer’s job isn’t quite exciting after all, to others at least. I asked her.
She did hair and makeup for models. Had lived in Seattle for over twelve years. And called herself an old lady. I told her she wasn’t. That she was quite beautiful, regardless. She took the compliment appreciatively. Yet persisted. I turned to her friend, capturing her fleeting attention with a hey - customary for people whose names you don’t quite remember and are embarrassed to have them reiterate – and asked what was wrong with her. They laughed heartily. How old do you think I am? Twenty-three. I’m thirty-one. Eight years off the mark I suppose - I was somewhat close. She did not look it. I spoke my mind. I’m flattered. Which is when we reached her car.
I noticed the car seats in the back. She saw me glancing and explained she had two kids. And was going through a divorce. Those do take forever. I was the least perturbed by this development, surprising even myself. She asked me how old I was. She guessed in fact. How do you like your job? It is alright but I explore other avenues as well. Such as? Writing. I asked if I could oblige her to read a poem I had penned. She acquiesced as long as I read it to hear instead. Which I did. Pertaining to a woman I had encountered a few months earlier who had captured my fancy. I read to her, all the while looking into her eyes. Those beautiful eyes. She clung onto every word I uttered. When I had finished she asked me who it was about. A woman I met. Do you have a picture of her? Alas, I do not. Perhaps she wanted to compare the vision of this woman, I had conjured through my words, with her actual countenance.
She turned to her friend and started to say I was too young. There was no discernable segue into this new conversation and I became a spectator, a specter perhaps, as they went back and forth; her friend defending my age since her parents had the same difference and it had worked out between them. Angalina shrugged, seemingly agreeing with the verdict. When is your birthday? May. A Taurus! I’ve been with Taurians before. They are very passionate. Perhaps we could sustain the same passion, I took upon the opportunity to flirt back. We continued gazing at each other. I could not stop thinking how beautiful she was. We talked some more. Neither of us wanted to leave. You could sense it by the lack of restlessness in either of us. It was as if eternity had stretched out before us with no worry for when we would grant each other what we desired.
Her friend hopped around on the side, drunk, lost to her own world.
The night fog began to drift onto the shores of our waking lives, the air around us acquiring a diaphanous quality. Our actions were subject to no other gaze but our own. It did not bring with it lust, as some might imagine. Instead, it provided shelter to the unravelling innocence and playfulness between us, protecting us from the world and its vagaries.
I want to see you again. Hesitance flickered across her brow, a solemnity expressed by those enrapturing eyes. I don’t know. I am with someone, she proclaimed, her actions finally aligning with her words, as if the words I had uttered had finally broken the spell that had hitherto held us in its thrall. I feel guilty. You needn’t. You have done nothing wrong, I assured her. I took her hand gently. You are true to your love. I just want to see you again, see you before me so that I may revel in your beauty. Love is not a feeling reserved for just one. It is shared with several people over the course of our lives. Just as we love our parents, our children, our partner, perhaps even our exes. At different times. Or even at the same. Each love of a varying degree, fulfilling a different satisfaction. She pondered over my words as the veil lifted from around us.
A hush; silence. The world consumed by the ethereal grey.
She took my phone.
It should have been a natural end to the fantasy we were sharing: the world rushing back to our senses. We exchanged goodbyes. Yet I could not bring myself to walk away. Neither could she. Her delightful gaze unfalteringly transfixed on me. So, what now? I saw where the night could lead. I don’t know. I knew. But I couldn’t. She didn’t deserve any guilt. And I deserved more than one night. I looked towards her longingly. She looked towards me questioningly. I would take you home and give you my heart. I would give anything to be with you. But I cannot do what you ask of me. I cannot have you under the veil of night. I would not want to lose you.
She smiled, an air of melancholy about her. Leaning in she kissed my cheek. The world dissolved. If only I had met you before. If I stay any longer I fear I will fall in love with you. And I do not know how to love him and you at the same time. Love me. Or don’t. You shall remain a part of my memory, nevertheless. A memory of beauty. Of desire. Of longing. Of love yet to be had.
I hope I see you again. Maybe. Perhaps you could cut my hair sometime. Maybe.
A smile appeared as she drove away, the fog veiling her from my sight. I wondered if I would ever see her again, those tender eyes, that flawless smile, that mesmerizing face, as the glowing red of her car taillights faded into the greying dark.
