Marilyn’s stalker faded into the background on the drive home. I felt so close to her as if I knew her and we were lovers in another lifetime.
But when we arrived at her place it was evident she was from a different world—so polite and proper at the door.
“I’ll walk you up,” I suggested.
“I’ll be fine.”
I smiled inwardly, foiled again, I mused.
“But can’t I come in?”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“Why—do we need a chaperone?”
“Something like that,” she smiled. “You can come on Saturday night.”
“What’s different about Saturday?”
“My grandmother will be here. She’s dying to meet you.”
I bent over and kissed her dark mouth and felt a thrill run through my veins.
She put both hands on my chest and pushed back. “That’s all,” she said sternly.
I gave her my broken smile, trying my best to look wounded.
“You’re incorrigible,” she smirked. “Saturday, about eight.”
I waited until she was safely inside and heard the lock click, before I turned and walked back to my car.
About a half block down, an unmarked car sat idling. Abe had been true to his word, but it did little to reassure me. What would happen after tonight—or all the nights after that?
I felt an overwhelming need to shelter her—it was a protective emotion I had never felt before in my life.
All the way home, I felt divided—one part of me was focused on tomorrow’s agenda—the other part was with her, behind her lighted windows, in her Art Deco apartment…living in the Thirties.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. I kept replaying what happened in the Wymilwood Café. I never experienced anything like that before—it was like a waking dream.
Something Marilyn said must have evoked that response in me. It felt so real and the aura of it lingered still.
It reminded me of my childhood house. It was built in the late 1800’s and certain rooms retained the feel of that time—a certain scent—a certain trick of the light, and you felt you were back in the nineteenth century.
That’s how I felt with Marilyn. Maybe she, herself, was the medium—drawing out of me everything I had ever felt or learned about the Thirties.
I knew I was rationalizing, trying to come to terms with an improbable experience. But then, why did she call me Joey? I wanted to ask her at Sassafraz, but Sam and Marcus spoiled that opportunity.
Still, I dreamt of her, before I even met her—and not just dreamt of her, but also passionately desired her, more than I ever desired any woman. That was definitely eerie.
My head was beginning to ache and my thoughts were buzzing like bumble bees. I tried to deliberately dream of her again—to picture her in the darkness—her lips moistening, her dark eyes huge and inviting.
It didn’t work. I couldn’t conjure her up—and it made me even more frustrated.
My vigil continued. The red digits of the clock marked the hours and minutes. I must have finally fallen asleep just before four, but then it felt as if I almost immediately awakened to the alarm buzzing seven a.m.
Three hours of sleep. It would be a long day.
© 2017 – 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.