“So, then, this guy, I could swear he makes his living posing half-naked in underwear campaigns and linen suits and tapered clothes down the runway.”
“So?” her friend asked.
“So we shared a table, a conversation and a few laughs. And that was it.”
“Nothing? No mobile number exchanges or a pen-pal thing?”
“No. It was just like that, a fleeting moment.”
“Weren’t you always fascinated with models in general?”
“So why not in him? Is he exceptionally good-looking?”
“Sure. Very. His face is a masterpiece.”
“No tingly feels?”
“And he isn’t someone you’ve seen anywhere?”
“I don’t think so or I would have remembered.”
“Why weren’t you interested?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t associated that meeting with any emotion, real or unreal. I haven’t thought about it until you asked me.”
“You’ve always been the sexy thing, come on.”
“Well all my libido might have dried up.”
She stirred her coffee lazily and looked outside. It was snowing. Snow in the city can be lonelier, but she’s always lived alone, decided to live alone. She liked the melancholy, the freedom, of being alone.
Could her eyes be deceiving her? The man she met last week in the same cafeteria is walking slowly outside, crossing the street, wearing black jeans, weathered leather boots, and grey wool coat. He has a blue scarf tied around his neck. Suddenly, a huge wave of strange de ja vu and nostalgia hit her – it felt as if she’s known him for so long it’s impossible not to remember him, or love him. Suddenly she knew everything about him – where he was born, when and to whom. She knew where he went to study, when he started working and that his first ever casting was with Armani. His habits, the way he laughs, talks and stares. The way he sways and the way he makes her feel. Suddenly, she knew it all, felt it all. She tasted it – sweet, with a hint of bitterness somewhere. Kind of spicy too, like a chilli dark chocolate. She blinked.
“What happened to you?” her friend asked her.
“I know him. From somewhere, suddenly, I- ”
“What do you mean, know him?” her friend asked.
“I know him, all about him, as he knows me!” She said rather wildly.
“You were just saying there was nothing, you know nothing, how come this suddenly turns into a mystery thriller?” her friend asked, confused.
“I DON’T KNOW! But there is everything – and – ”
Images flooded her mind. A villa somewhere in Crete. Sailing in Antibes. Intimacy, nakedness, fondness, love. Proposals. His being flooded hers, she was suddenly drowning. They loved each other somewhere. There were blinding flashes of light. She winced; as if something metallic, deathly is going to take him away.
“There he is…” she croaked, pointing a shaking finger to the man who just opened the floodgates of her consciousness.
“Where?” her friend asked.
“There.” She pointed.
Her friend craned her neck to take a good look at him.
“But that’s!” Her friend couldn’t go on.
“Yes.” She said quite breathlessly.
“He’s… can’t be… why? They said… It was reported…”
The man, outside, looked at her. He recognised her. He stopped dead on his tracks, just outside the cafe door, standing in front of huge glass walls, directly opposite him is the woman. He stared at her, and to her, it seemed as if he was remembering things, feelings, and places, just like what happened to her, like what is happening to her. He was standing outside, unmindful of the gale of the wind and its harsh coldness. They shared kisses. He was fond of kissing. There were lots of it, and caresses and loving. Laughter, too. And talks. Late night ones.
He stood there, shock plastered on his face, a look of broken, painful comprehension on his face. He knows her. He knows her from… way back. Her short, pixie cut. Her small, beautiful face. Her warm, soft hands that offered him the most comfort. Her small body that fits perfectly with his. Those hypnotising, deep eyes. Her intelligence. Her warmth and ferociousness. He knows her, her life, the details, and all the beautiful and ugly things associated with it. There were bright flashes of lights. He winced, both of his hands plastered on the glass wall, perhaps for balance, for steadying, or for reaching out. The barrier. What was it? What’s keeping him from her?
He took a small step forward to go inside.
“His name is…”
And then she woke up.
She caressed her temples.
“That damn dream again,” she muttered.
She stood up and looked in the mirror. She felt that long scar just below her jaw. There’s a vague sense of knowing in her, that the scar is connected to that dream, to that man. She knew only what her family told her. She never bothered telling them about the dream. Or the man. It’s snowing.
Somewhere in a beautiful rustic beach house in Santa Catarina, a man woke up.
“It’s her again.” He whispered.
The winds howled ominously. It was dark outside, and snow was falling.
It’s how he always felt when he has that dream. Cold. Somehow, it coincides with the weather. It always does.