I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this waybecause I do not know any other way of loving but this,in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
― Pablo Neruda
Monday comes, and I stay off work—Tuesday too. I’m afraid Elle will phone and wonder where I am. I dread having to make an excuse. Wednesday, I stay in bed all day. Finally, by seven at night, I’m angry again—furious—and spent.
I force myself to get up and move around—then, get dressed. I head out to the liquor store, but find myself heading to the bar—the fateful bar where I made my drunken confession and lost the love of my life.
I find the same table where Elle and I sat that night. I sit down and commiserate with my grief, sipping Yellow Tail and staring at the rainy street. I toast the watercolour painting of Key Largo—Here’s looking at you, Kid.
I envy Bogey and Bacall sailing away.
Past midnight, I hear a familiar voice.
“It’s not the end of the world, James” I look up into Elle’s lovely face.
“Oh great!” I moan, and try to straighten up. She sits down and puts a soft hand on mine.
“What are you doing here?” she asks softly.
Something inside me breaks. Everything I ever wanted is sitting opposite me, and all I can think is, I can never have what I want.
“Guess I’m here because my life derailed…again. Thought I found someone and it fell apart.”
I look helplessly at her. “Such a waste.”
And I totally mean that—not just the anonymous girl in the chat room, but me and Elle and my miserable life, and my whole existence that’s just been a waste of breath.
“I lost somebody too,” she says, in a voice so low, I can barely hear her.
I stare back, not sure of what I heard—it’s so quiet in the bar—was it her, or was it the rain? She always had a soft voice…
“I met someone and we connected, you know—we’d anticipate each other’s thoughts—it kind of scared me—that kind of soul-to soul.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran away. I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.”
“No? I thought all women wanted that.”
“Some do, I guess, but I was young and scared and lost the only one who ever meant anything to me—until the other night…”
“What do you mean?’
“A silly thing, I suppose—a dream. And in this dream, we met again, and once more, I didn’t want to leave, but I was scared.”
“He must be some kind of super guy, this dude—I mean, to attract someone as special as you.”
The words hung in the air. I did it again—said something stupid, but I didn’t care. It was the truth.
“He is…special, this dude, as you call him.”
I coloured up to the roots of my hair. I was drunk, but hell, I wasn’t that insensitive.
“It’s you, James,” she whispered.
My mouth hung open—I’m sure I had this dumb, glassy stare. “Me?”
She nodded. “I’ve been running away ever since we met, so I decided to go on line and test the waters so to speak—and it was still there. I’m in love with you, James—I always was.”
“You’re Ekeivn?” I sputtered.
“It’s the translation of my name in Greek,” she laughed, “I wanted something exotic.”
Somehow Greek seemed appropriate. “You are exotic,” I said.
Well, it didn’t end there—love stories never do—it was just our beginning, our time in this dream of sailing away to a forever land of just us two.
Now, we sit by the fire, and watch rain trails trill down the window.
We’re soul mates, Elle and I. We don’t talk much, but then, we don’t really need to—we know each others thoughts.
Besides, I’ve fallen under the spell of her call.
I’m out of that boat, clinging to a rock for dear life—but it’s her rock, and she’s singing to me.
I’m caught in the undertow, but can’t say no. I’ve fallen under the spell of her call.