That is the way we see each other in life.
― Tennessee Williams
Nathalie Abbot is unobtainable—indifferent to men and oblivious of me.
She’s a mystery—I have no idea where she goes, or what she likes—I yearn to ask my fellow lecturer Aline, but I’m afraid she’ll find out I’m infatuated with her friend.
Ivy Gordon is another colleague who goes with Nathalie to coffee houses and art galleries, but other than a few stray comments from conversations, I really know nothing of Nathalie’s hidden life.
I do know she often comes in Saturdays to prepare her lecture notes for the week—she’s in her office and occasionally has lunch at Hart House and though I conspire to arrange a chance encounter, it never happens.
Still, I drag myself out of bed every Saturday and drive down to the university in the hope that this might be the day
Lately, I’ve been hearing through snippets of gossip that many of the female professors consider Nathalie quite spiritual—I take it that is in some way related to her practice of yoga—but I think all that stretching simply makes her more lithe and graceful.
She’s a goddess with honey coloured hair and huge brown eyes that stare and leave me desolate.
But this weekend, I’m in a quandary. There’s a freak early snowfall. It’s still October but the weather forecast is calling for near-blizzard conditions.
I’m tempted to forego the trek to the university, but in the end, even the remote possibility that she’ll be there is enough to lure me into going.
I have no trouble finding a parking space in the near-deserted lot and thankfully notice Nathalie’s red sports car is there and already snowed-in. I deliberately park close to the street so I can easily exit the lot.
I find myself already fantasizing a scenario where Nathalie’s car is snowbound and I offer her a lift home. Even I recognize that’s improbable thinking, and so I try to shake off the daydream and get back to reality.
I walk through silent hallways that are gloomy and somber. The leaded windows in the gothic building are splattered with snow—their corners hold sculpted drifts and myriad flakes are dancing in clear spots in the windowpanes.
I see a yellow light under Nathalie’s closed door and hear muted strains of Rachmaninoff.
My heart aches for her, but I’m terrified to knock on her door and disturb her.
I continue walking past two more doors to my office, turn on the light and leave the door ajar, as I do every Saturday as a subtle invitation—a signal that anyone, especially Nathalie, is free to knock or come in. But she never drops by and never comes in.
The advantage of my open door policy is I can hear when she leaves for lunch and locks her door to make the trek across Queen’s Park to Hart House.
Today, I follow at a discreet distance almost wishing she’d flounder in the snow or lose her footing so I might rescue her, but of course, she doesn’t. I watch her graceful figure in her dark, ankle-length hooded coat and follow in her glassy footsteps down a path choked with sleet. We veer across Queen’s Park Circle, and continue on to the Hart House doors.
Today, the dining hall is closed because of the storm and only The Arbor Room Café is open. Nathalie is nowhere in sight. I go into the café and order soup and sandwich and pick a table where I’m sure she’ll have to spot me and be constrained to sit down and join me.
After what seems an eternity, she comes in and heads to the food counter, but to my dismay, she orders a takeout sandwich and coffee. Within moments she’s back out the door leaving me dining alone at a lopsided Arborite table.
By the time I make it back to the college, the snow is knee-deep and visibility minimal. Nathalie is again sequestered behind the yellow outline of her door.
I sit alone in my office sipping lukewarm coffee I bought at the café and bemoaning my fate. The utter futility of pursuing Nathalie finally dawns on me—the truth finally penetrates.
I realize my fantasy of Nathalie will never come true, mainly because I’m too reserved to take a bold step. Moreover, each passing day the prospect of failure becomes even more terrifying because of the time and emotional investment I’ve made in obsessing over her.
If ever a lover were deluded and destined to failure, it’s me. For the sake of my own sanity, I conclude I can no longer indulge this fantasy.
Now I feel even more desolate than ever.