who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade
the driver to stop. You will never see her again.
Whenever it rains you will think of her.
― Neil Gaiman
I’m out night driving in the rain and almost hit a young blonde woman wandering aimlessly in the middle of the road—she's dazed and soaked to the skin.
I pull over and walk back to talk to her.
“Miss, are you okay—do you need help?”
She stares at me, or more precisely through me. Then, I notice blood staining the back of her head.
“Get in the car,” I say, “I’m driving you to the nearest hospital.”
I manage to guide her into the passenger’s seat.
I get in and start the motor, but as soon as I reach for the gearshift, a clammy hand clutches my wrist.
“I’m fine.”
I stare back into huge blue eyes used to giving commands.
“You need to see a doctor—you have a head injury.”
“No doctors, or I’m out of here.”
I shrug. “Have it your way—but you’re injured. How can I help?”
She leans back in the seat, eyes closed and obviously exhausted. “I just need to rest for a while.”
Her teeth are chattering and her lips are blue. I turn on the car’s heater. “You need to get somewhere warm and take off those wet clothes.”
“Yeah sure, Hon—take me home. I’m yours.”
Not a bad idea, I muse, but truth is, I’m really concerned about her. I’ve got a closet full of Carla’s clothes and maybe once the girl’s settled, she’ll let me treat her head wound—then, I’ll fix her something to eat and try to get her to go to an Emergency ward.
I drive and she sleeps. She’s still woozy when I get her up to my condo, but seems to be coming around.
I set her up on the couch with a throw blanket while I root through Carla’s clothes looking for something practical and warm. It’s hard—Carla doesn’t do practical, and well, frankly most of her clothes would scarcely keep anyone warm.
I settle on a dark cashmere sweater and jeans—both from Sak’s Fifth Avenue and both sized medium. I set them out on the bed along with undergarments still in their original packaging. Don’t worry—I’m not presuming. Women figure these things out.
While the girl’s in the bedroom changing, I make toast, coffee and bacon and eggs—it’s my specialty, and really, all that’s in the fridge to eat.
The fireplace is lit and I put on one of Carla’s Thirties Jazz albums.
I’m staring out at the rain when I sense a presence behind me and turn and fall into those huge blue eyes again.
“I’m Kath—what’s your name?” she asks.
“J-Jes Connors,” I stammer. She’s incredibly attractive—and somehow more so, wearing Carla’s clothes and smelling of her perfume.
She smirks at my frank appraisal of her beauty.
“Well, I just want you to know, Jes—you’re a real gentleman.”
She says it in a whispered, slightly mocking tone that somehow leaves me breathless.
Most women nowadays don’t talk that way—refined and rarefied—breathy almost. Carla certainly didn’t possess that art—there was nothing sotto about her. Instead, she had this gravelly, coarse purr women seem to cultivate thinking it’s sexy, when it sounds more like a growl.
Not this girl though—she’s soft and gentle with a dreamy look in her eyes. I wish it were for me, but it’s not.
Everything about this girl is off, as if she doesn’t belong in this time or place.
Maybe I’m romanticizing our meeting in the rain but I get the distinct feeling that she’s lost her bookmark in the space-time continuum.
On the other hand, maybe she’s just spacey from being hit on the head and I’m overthinking too much which is what my ex always said—still, there’s something about her that’s unreal and better left unsaid.