Then and Back Again

Then and Back Again

She’s a very young singer. OK, anyone can call themselves a singer, or for that matter, a poet; or a writer; but I actually think I’ve seen her perform somewhere, somewhere local.

She’s about to graduate from college, … a lifetime ago for me.

Petite; dark hair, mid-length, almost non-descript, very bright dark eyes, teeth pretty if a bit uneven. But her smile is dazzling and she has a very pretty face. The kind of attractiveness set off by something slightly imperfect, making it more than the sum of its parts.

I’ve spent scarcely an hour with her and that in the company of several hundred people. We chatted for perhaps a quarter of that time. The likelihood is very high I’ll never see her again, unless of course, she becomes very successful, and then I might catch her on television, or from thirty rows back at a concert.

I tell myself that she has the soul of an artist, that’s why I find myself attracted to her, but that smile, that smile that so reminds me of someone else, that smile may have a bit too much to do with it.

She’s a linguist she says, or at least aspires to be one. She says that she’s developed an interest in political activism, although perhaps it’s just a trace. Interests I care about deeply, but I admit that a hint of attraction has taken hold before I’ve had any chance to explore those nascent aspects of her character. She’s recently become profoundly interested in literature, genre as yet unspecified, and wants to read things I’ve written; … or so she said. Perhaps it was just conversation, she seems good at that. She asked for my card so that she could let me know where she’ll perform next. Perilous; but, … interesting.

Literature. Hmmm, I wonder how real her interest is. I ask myself if I care and realize that I do, at least a bit, but that if I ever got to know her I might care a lot.

I ought to admit that it’s just chemistry striking unexpectedly from concealment when least expected, probably Murphy messing with me again, but even so, it’s kind of pleasant. I’d thought myself past the stage of sparks, not even sure embers were left.

I haven’t seen her again, at least not in this reality loop. Of course, I only met her a few nights ago.

Ah, … the joy of fantasy and rationalization.

Time to wake up though; … I think.

© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2014; all rights reserved