Her Thirties Part 28

 

We were at Sotto Sotto’s, an exclusive Italian eatery and I was trying to order our dinner and not focus so intently on Marilyn, but it was hard, especially after learning about her mysterious origins.

She seemed to come to me out of nowhere bringing with her all the allure and enchantment of the 1930’s.

Just being with her was like stepping back in time.

 

She waited patiently until Ernesto, our waiter left, then tilted her head toward me, smiled and clinked her glass with mine. “Now, it’s time for your story.”

I blanched. “But I told you about my pathetic love life,” I protested.

“Not that, Silly—I want to know why you think we’ve met before.”

 

I was off the hook, but only partially—I mean, how do you tell a girl, especially one you’ve just met, you’ve been making love to her in your dreams?

You get the picture—It’s a delicate situation.

“It’s kind of weird—sort of like your experience—and I also can’t explain it.”

“A man of mystery now—Well, go ahead and try to explain—I’m intrigued.”

“I’ve been having a recurrent dream—about a girl I’ve never met in real life—that is, until the day you walked into the lecture room.”

 

Her eyes brightened and lips moistened. “How delicious! You dreamt about me before you even met me?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh c’mon, Scott—don’t go all cryptic on me. You started this, so now you’re going to have to give me the details.”

 

I drained my wine glass. “It all began after I broke up with Sam—uh, Samantha Ellis—she’s a photographer I was dating. We were at a party based on a Thirties theme. Later in the dream, I end up in a backroom and there’s a girl crying. I start to comfort her—and well, we end up kissing.”

“And the girl looked like me?”

“Right. I just put it down to repressed feelings for Sam, but then it happened again. In all, it’s happened three times.”

“Do we kiss each time?”

 

I nodded.

“So, you’re thinking this is some kind of déjà vu?”

“Something like that—I don’t know—actually, I haven’t a clue.”

“So, I suppose the next thing you’re going to do, is ask me to kiss you—to compare and see if the dream was accurate?”

“No! Do you think I’m making this up as some kind of ruse to seduce you?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well, that’s definitely not the case.”

“Definitely, eh?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“So, you definitely don’t want to kiss me?”

 

I took a deep breath—I was getting exasperated. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then, you admit you really do want to kiss me?”

I looked at her and suddenly the only thing in the world I wanted to do, was kiss her. But considering what happened when she just touched my hand, it’d be like grabbing hold of a high-tension cable.

 

“I—I’m sorry. I’m confused. I knew there was no sane way to explain this to you. You must either think I’m mad or some kind of pervert.”

“No,” she smiled, “actually, I think it’s adorable when you get flustered. And I do believe you—it’s consistent with everything else that’s happened lately.”

“Well, that’s good to know—not the part that weird things have been happening to you—but that you believe me—that’s good to know.”

 

I looked into her eyes and it was then I knew we’d never part.

We were drawn together—two galaxies, spiraling into each other—two worlds colliding, in the depths of some eternal night.

The rest of the evening was a blur.

Later, when we stood outside the bookstore. I kissed her, and again, drank in her coldness.

I say again, because it wasn’t our first kiss—our first meeting took place when our souls migrated and we somehow found each other—and now, I clung to her as if returning to a first love.

 

The drive home was a fog of memories—images of her face and lips, transparent on the road ahead.

I was drowning again—submerged this time in a tangle of reveries.

She was my dream girl, my silver screen siren.

I tried to picture Sam, but her memory became a cloud of bubbles borne away on the river of time.

Somehow I knew this was what I had been living for and waiting for my whole life. Like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea, this was the prize that had been eluding me—my shivering, slippery, silvery fish.

 

© 2017 – 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

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