A Quick Kiss in the Dark

I am suffering from an emotional anorexia. I am a crushed soul, an empty hollow husk of my former shadow, and though I walk everywhere, I used to fly and in the skies, I had danced, but now I have run out of sky. I am beginning to crack, but that is somehow alright. I have been told by a wise man that everything has a crack in it, that’s how the light gets in, shivering upon the darkest corners of our hearts, illuminating our darkest movements and moments, radiating warmth like a perfect blanket on a cold, cold night.

I was desperate for love, constantly searching for the solution to my equation: [í<3u = (a)l²+1]. I’ve tried everything I could think of: physics tricks; chemical concoctions; emotional distortions — nothing worked. I came close to giving up and falling back on the d standby, the old answer to every problem known to humanity: The Hemingway Solution.

As a final bid, I left a letter, a note really, upon my door, in the hopes that someone would be able to settle this debate within me because even though Hemingway had the answer to it all, it wasn’t the one I wanted yet. So the letter was made, simply saying:

Dearest,

I am writing you this letter to inform you of my unbreakable nature. That’s all.

-Love Me

P.S. Be yourself, I love you like that.

P.P.S. Can you help me solve x³+y³=z³? I’m dying to know the answer.

That’s what I wrote. That’s what I taped to my front door and then went to sleep with Hemingway’s deviously simple solution resting on top or my dresser. 

When I awoke the next morning, Hemingway’s answer was still waiting patiently to be employed, but I ignored it and went to my front door to check on my letter; my distress call; my last bid for — I don’t know, something, anything! But I found nothing. My letter was gone, tape and all. Maybe someone took it home; maybe the wind blew it away and is now resting in some oil-filled puddle on the side of some crumbling road. Was there any wind last night? I don’t remember. I’m not going to ask Hemingway either, he doesn’t have the answer to that question. Will you look at that: I found something which Hemingway’s Solution doesn’t solve. Maybe things are looking up?

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

Maybe not. 

I walked back to my front door and open it, without checking on who it might be through the people peephole, only to be greeted by an elegant woman who introduced herself as Sara. No ‘H’ in her name. She said she saw and read my letter, and had wanted to meet me. She claims to have wanted to come sooner but didn’t know if I would be home. 

I apologized for not leaving more vital information in the letter, such as how to contact me, and I invited her inside.

I offered her a seat and she gladly took one on my beat-up couch, smiling wide the entire time. She sat there staring at me with her piercing dark honey eyes, highlighting her cheeks and forehead. Her face was encapsulated by a space helmet of warm waves of hair. Her long delicate fingers rested on the knees of her crossed legs, like some sort of X-chromosomed alien Buddha. Her caramel bronze skin appeared to glow with an ancient radiance seen only by a chosen few, filling my humble abode with am aura of mystery and intrigue; while her tan, pastel-colored lips parted slightly, concealing her teeth. 

It looked like she wanted to speak, but only a comforting silence came in the form of whispy breaths, speaking louder than any word could. Maybe things are looking up?

I asked her if she would like something to drink. I glanced over at my sad Felix the Cat clock upon the wall above her head. It claimed to be well past noon as Sara replied, “My favorite drink is a Molotov cocktail on the rocks.”

Maybe not.

I told her I didn’t have any of the ingredients in stock for that peculiar drink, but that I would be sure to get some the next time I go shopping. She laughed. A genuine little giggle. An honest, happy sound emanating from her throat and coming through her smiling mouth, flashing her ivory teeth as she made another request. 

“I’ll take some ice tea,” she said. Thankfully I had some of that already made. Something I had brewed the day before when the sun was out, my favorite kind. I poured us both a tall glass and told her about the tea. Her smile widened farther, gleefully informing me that sun brewed iced tea was her favorite. 

This couldn’t really be happening, I told myself. This couldn’t be possible. The night before, I was at the bottom of my barrel in the deepest pits with a blades pendulum swinging above me like the Sword of Damocles, and now, I am sitting across from a magnificently beautiful alien of a woman who hasn’t stopped smiling since she stepped into my home; into my life. A woman dressed in the leaves of seasons past, casualties of eternity, all stretched across her being; arms and legs pointed towards the five horizons. 

I found myself adrift and at peace, slowly beginning my orbit around her soul, in very much the same manner the Earth does to the sun, caught within the gravity of her essence. 

This is all too perfect of a start, I tell myself. What are the chances?

Sara and I sat apart from one another, quietly drinking our tea, letting the daylight break on through the cracks of my window shades, unveiling the parts of my living room that had been hidden in the gloom.

“Your letter,” Sara began to say, ending the silence, “that was—”

“Pathetic, I know,” I interrupted quickly, clearly ashamed. She only gave me a reprimanding scowl, but only for a fraction of a second before returning to her natural, charming state. 

“Actually, it’s one of the most romantic things I have ever read.” This, needless to say, shocked me. Who is this woman who has been sent to me? Whether by a cosmic sleight of hand, or a twist of fate, I knew I needed to go on with her. By the Maker or by the Roll, she had been brought to me for a reason. By the Maker or by the Roll, I had been given a new life. 

By the time evening came, we were sitting side by side, together, hand in hand, watching a movie of some kind, from some long-forgotten era we both seemed to love. Sitting there in the dark, she became the comforting blanket I needed, the kind of blanket to keep me warm from my cold thoughts. Sitting there in the dark, I took a risk that would change my life one way or another; a snowball’s chance in Hell of succeeding, but whoever came up with that saying clearly didn’t read Dante’s Inferno: the lowest pit of Hell is a frozen lake of Lucifer’s tears, eternally crying in sorrow; his tears falling like snowflakes. So with that in mind, I took my chances. I turned my head slightly and away from the on-going movie, faced Sara, and pressed my lips against her cheek.

For what felt like an eon, nothing happened. We were stuck in time and I was on the verge of creating my own frozen lake of tears, with Hemingway as my sole companion, but then a down-feather blanket of warmth climbed through her face, and thus her cheek, and on to my lips, flowing like a river of glorious sunlight; filling my body with a sense that all is right in the universe. 

I felt her cheek rise slightly against my lips and, although I could not see it, I knew she was smiling that wide Aurora smile that could only come from her.

I felt like a comet in its perihelion, burning off the encrusted layers of frosted dejection, rejection, and denial that has built up over the years. The electricity of the moment buzzed courses through my body like an apiary of bees, vibrating in my chest — I had become vivified for the first time in an eternity.

And then the moment passed. Only a few seconds long, if that. A quick kiss in the dark to a total stranger, its brevity is its own attraction. She gave my hand a tight squeeze and began to get up. The movie had ended and she said it was getting late. I turned on the lights and walked her to the door. 

Before heading back out into the world, she looked me in the eye and asked if I would like to go out to dinner tomorrow night. I accepted without a second thought. We said our goodbyes and I went back to bed soon after. That night, I slept. Actually slept. Not even Hemingway could rouse me from my slumber. Maybe things are looking up?

I awoke the next morning with a voicemail from Sara saying she couldn’t make it to dinner tonight but promised we could go the following night.

Maybe not. 

Somewhere in the far off distance, an echo of an echo, I swear I could hear Hemingway laughing his brains out. If I said I wasn’t disappointed, I would be lying, yet I wasn’t sad. Life happens sometimes and it’s out of your control. By the Maker or by the Roll; man plans and God laughs. There’s another reason why I wasn’t sad, a more deceptively simple reason; a single car in this train of logic — I was in love.

Love to me has always been like a stray dog: you feed it once and won’t ever go away, no matter how mangy, starving, desperate, or ill it seemed, it will keep coming back, asking for another piece of yourself to feed upon, to gnaw upon as it lay on a cold, cold floor. Only this time, I am the stray and I have found an owner. Or someone to feed me; wanted to be fed by; taken in, and taken care of. 

I went through my day in a daze, gliding upon the grounds of hope, joyfully dreaming about all that could be, instead of all that could have been. I went to check my phone at some point and found another voicemail from Sara. Why didn’t I hear it ring? She said that her plans had changed once again, and was free for dinner if I was still up for it. She said that she’d be over in twenty minutes or so. The message was left thirty minutes ago.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

The sound made me jump and I nearly dropped my phone. I nearly ran to the door like a lovesick dog welcoming their owner home; the rescuer of the pound, of the shelter. Opening the door, I found Sara standing there, clad in a beautiful black dress that sparkled like the night sky over an endless sea. Once more, I invited her in, apologizing for not being ready, and that I had only received her voicemail. She said she didn’t mind and took a seat while I went to beautiful myself in my bedroom. 

Several minutes later, I emerged wearing the sharpest suit I could find in my deprived collection, that being the only one in my collection. Sara was sitting still, like a Greek statue, only now she had a tall glass of iced tea in front of her. I guess she really liked my tea. 

After some minor formalities, we made our way out and into the night. As we made our way to my car, I noticed several people staring at us, they were obviously taken aback by Sara’s beauty. I had been beaming with pride, but now I was smiling wider than before. 

We didn’t drive for long. We arrived at a famed local Greek restaurant, called The Paraísthisi, I couldn’t remember what it meant, but that wasn’t important. As we took our seats at our table, the waitress came over. For a brief moment, she gave me a quizzical look; I guess she, too, couldn’t figure out how a guy like me ended up with an exquisite being like Sara. I made my request and turned to look at Sara and all her glory. I saw her mouth move like the waving of a Willow tree but didn’t hear what she ordered. It didn’t matter. 

We enjoyed our evening together and everyone around us appeared to be jealous of our warm companionship: her seraphim laughter; my antiphon reflections. Though she barely touched her dish and dessert, she gladly let me taste what she had chosen. People stared, still, but I didn’t mind – it was more attention than I had ever received, and I wasn’t even drunk, except on love.

We let the night wind down and returned back to my place. I asked if I could do anything for her. All she asked was for a movie to be put on as she sat down on my couch, like a cherry blossom making its way to a koi pond. I joined her after pouring two glasses of iced tea. I don’t remember what movie I chose, only that I was sitting next to her, next to Sara, holding her hand in mine. Maybe things are looking up?

Yet something sat uneasily within me: I could hear Hemingway whispering somewhere far, far away. Maybe it was something I ate.

Maybe not.

“Is something wrong?” Sara asked, sensing my discomfort. Her voice had taken a turn, the same way the air does but before a storm. While her tones were still as soft as the moonlight on Midsummer’s Eve, it had now been filled with immeasurable sorrow and grief, grief for something she already knew was coming, but still, she spoke, for what is grief, but love when it has come across its greatest mortal enemy.

I turned to face her, to tell her what I had been feeling, to tell her everything — but she wasn’t there. She never was. She never will be, because she isn’t real, and no matter how powerful we think our minds are, I can’t make her real. My perfect Dahlia arrangement wilted before me in the way a bouquet of roses gradually falls apart on a tombstone. My world had begun to crack, but there is no light coming in to shine upon the corners of the shade and darkened crevices, leaving behind the broken glass of the life I so desperately sought, cradled within my bitterly shaking hands, cutting deep slices of pain so great, so dark, they transmuted my blues into blacks, tattooing everything.

Somewhere, Hemingway was laughing again, wilder than ever before; howling, shouting, mad with cackling, only this time, I was tempted to join him, and gleefully accept his solution, because it was all coming together now: I wasn’t being stared at out of envy, or jealousy, but out of humor; out of malice; out of cynicism, but worst of all, pity. They pitied me, and here I thought everything was finally looking up, that my attraction, like that of aphid to a garden, was reasonable.

This made me sad: she isn’t real. I can’t make her real. She makes me sad, and yet, I miss her terribly, not just because she helped me, completed me, seemed to fix me of all that ails me, even for a moment within a blink of an eternity, she had become a part of my heart’s neighborhood; had filled a long-vacant and dying lot with life and potential, only to be vacated before a new ground could be broken. Even though her memory will forever occupy the space, it’ll always feel empty, because she isn’t real, and I can’t make her real. 

Time heals all wounds, I’m told, and the wounds of the heart are wrapped heavily in the bandages of time. Too bad Hemingway says that there isn’t any more time. I have to go. 

FIN