—Augusten Burroughs
The ice storm that damaged my Rosedale estate and made it uninhabitable for a month wreaked havoc in my mind.
My sudden homelessness made me impulsive and when my colleague, Scott, suggested I stay at his flat for the month while he was away at a writers conference, I leapt at his offer.
But now events in the building are making me reconsider my decision.
I’m rattled by the landlord, Antoine Bastard and his wild appearance and unruly hair—he seems a madman.
And now it’s gotten to the point where I’m taking to drinking to calm my nerves.
This afternoon is a case in point. The sight of Antoine carrying a bat and looking crazed has me fearing for my life.
To calm my nerves I pour a scotch, down it and am starting on a second when there’s a knock at my door.
I answer it with misgiving, hoping it’s not my crazed landlord. I’m shocked to see a beautiful woman—the very one from my dream—or, at least, a reasonable facsimile thereof.
“M-may, I help you?” I stammer.
She smiles, obviously bemused by my reaction.
“How do you, do?” she purrs, “I’m your neighbour from upstairs, and I’m in search of Absynthe.”
“I’m afraid all I can offer you at the moment is scotch or Shiraz, Miss—”
“Bigelow,” she intones huskily, proffering her hand, “Gillian Bigelow.”
“Scott Henderson,” I reply shaking the hand, and noting how silky soft and warm it felt.
The woman seems amused by my reaction.
“I think you’re confusing me with our landlord. I’m not bohemian in tastes like that dreadful Antoine—he drinks Absinthe and lives in a dream of green fairies.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, and of course, I didn’t. I had no idea what she was talking about—not that I cared—I was mesmerized by her eyes. They were violet.
“But, I will take you up on a glass of Shiraz,” she smiled mischievously.
“Please do—come in,” I said awkwardly, feeling for all the world like a bumbling version of Jimmy Stewart.
She entered the flat and sat on the sofa.
She was dressed in skin-tight black leather pants and was wearing a huge black designer sweater. She had the supple grace of a panther. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“I’ve always like this flat,” she said in a dreamy voice.
I handed her the Shiraz, “You like this flat—then, why haven’t you leased it?”
“I need to be up high,” she purred.
I nodded as if that made sense, which it didn’t.
“So, have you seen Absynthe?” She asked again.
“Who’s Absynthe?” I asked dumbly.
“My Siamese,” she whispered. “She likes to come down here and hang out.”
“I wonder why,” I said, making small talk.
“I think she does it to go hunting—but then, of course, I have to go searching after her. It becomes our game.”
“And what does she hunt?”
She took a slow sip of Shiraz, peering directly at me over the edge of her glass—the violet eyes holding me in thrall.
“Men,” she said.
I felt a cold shiver run up my spine.
“Men,” she repeated, “She’s a female and prefers males.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“She was down here last night, you know—she’s such a bad girl.”
The chill returned, especially when she turned her violet eyes directly on me again.
Suddenly, there was an icy tinkle of a bell and a black form leaped from the wardrobe onto my shoulders.
I cried out in fear, spilling my scotch.
“Absynthe! How could you?” She frowned and wrinkled her nose.
The cat glided like a shadow over furniture, through the half-open window and up the fire escape.
“So naughty,” she sighed, “I hope she didn’t upset you.”
“No, it’s nothing,” I babbled, “I’m accustomed to sudden upstarts—I teach freshman, you know.”
She ignored my quip. “I think we’ve met before, Scott—do you have that feeling?”
“I do,” I confessed, and immediately began recalling my dream and those long sweet kisses.
“Yes,” she went on, a faraway look in her eyes, “I’m a very old soul, and it could have been a very long time ago—but somewhere our paths crossed, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I concurred, “ but I just can’t say where or when.”
“Does it matter? I mean, we could be in this dance for all of eternity, you and I.”
She looked at me significantly.
I nodded. “Souls never die,” I whispered.
I reached out to touch her, but she drew back. “Not now, Scott—nighttime is so much more romantic.”
I shrugged, disappointed at being rebuffed. She sensed my feelings and gently patted my arm. “There’ll be time for us—don’t worry.”
She leaned in close and her fingers closed my eyes. Her lips lightly brushed mine.
“Waiting makes it more special,” she whispered.
When I opened my eyes again, she was gone.
I sat back on the sofa trembling and feeling light-headed. Why I felt so giddy, I had no idea. I felt completely drained of energy.
I had intended to spend the evening marking term papers, but was too weak to even begin the task. I sent out for pizza and sat in my front room sipping Shiraz, waiting for Gillian to appear.
By ten she hadn’t shown and I was too tired to bother changing into my pyjamas—I just feel asleep on the couch.
I felt I was losing my mind. What was real and what was a dream?
I felt caught in the web of approach-avoidance. I wanted to run, but her beauty enticed me to stay.
How would this all end? I mused as I fell into a deep sleep