Waking Reminders

“I sleep small. I don’t move. Sleep on the edge.”

There was a hunger in the words, as if he wanted to fill a void. A tiredness of being confined. 

“Do you have a king-sized bed?” she asked.

“Nope, a queen,” he seemed embarrassed by the admission.

She stared at his hand. Strong. Immovable.

“It could be the size of Texas, and it wouldn’t matter. I would still lie on my side, facing the door, bracing for the fall into that dark abyss.”

As the words came out, one by one, he turned his head to the right. A blank stare. She couldn’t surmise if he was looking through the door or beyond the darkness. She just knew that she wanted to touch him.

Without provocation, she placed her palm on the top of his hand. The sensation stirred. His focus drawn back to her, the lines around his eyes softened.

“And how do you sleep in your king-sized bed?”

He gave her a half-hearted wink, not knowing if he wanted to hear the explanation or the sound of her voice. Light and airy. Their gaze held for interminable seconds.

“My lips are sealed.” A flirtation. “Okay, okay, I’m solo tonight. I plan to take up all the diagonal space possible.”

Her smile broke something in him, then rearranged the pieces into a uniform whole. He leaned forward, gripping her delicate hand.

“I want to be next to you, to watch you sleep.”

“Maybe,” she whispered the sound and brought her smile inward.

The autumn breeze chased the multi-colored leaves down the sidewalk past their table. A fluttering of thoughts. Skipping shades of red and muted yellow. Claire watched the gentleman opposite them sip on hot chocolate, and she wrapped her arms tight against her torso.

“I’m not the same person who you knew thirty years ago.”

“I don’t want you to be that person,” he said with care.

“This version,” and she laughed disconcertingly, “this one has seen pain and has known regret.”

“Is she better for it?”

“Perhaps, you don’t really know, do you?”

With her free finger she circled the lip of her empty cup. A lingering smell of coffee.

“Do you remember when we first spoke on the phone, and you said that you wanted to thank me for being brave enough to be disappointed? In the memory of you or the new reality or both? I wasn’t certain what you meant…”

He nodded, “I was surprised. No, grateful that you would want to try. Not that anything had gone wrong between us, but for you having an interest in my present situation.”

“Funny, I think I have known you for thousands of years, Derek. I suspect you will be near always.”

It was a matter of fact statement. It halted the reverie.

“And where did we last meet?”

He sensed the eternal connection. He wanted to know.

A cold iciness touched his cheek. He could feel its grip despite his heavy beard. A trailing of something ruthless.

“Probably on some barren Scottish isle. A medieval tempest.”

And a gale wind circled them, lifting her hair, causing a shudder to run its course.

“Now you find me here. In this lonely corner of the world. Aged by time, wrought by circumstances,” he hesitated, searching for the meaning, “What do you make of it?”

She wanted him to know that this was the first instance of living. He awakened something temporal. A found object.

“I need this discourse. To hear your voice. To have these conversations.”

She fidgeted with the spoon. The mood flattened, bringing everything back to center.

The lie settled into dusk’s arrival. The sky balanced in shades of gray, as streetlamps illuminated the tree-lined boulevard. A soft, hazy glow. She didn’t tell him that she needed much more.

The conversation had been tamed and tempered. She debated on another refill, if not to drink the coffee, but to feel its warmth against her skin. She longed to feel something. She wanted to reach him.

“What happens if you end up needing me too?”

She was surprised at the enunciation. A scarlet hue stained her cheeks. An unsettling heat.

“You say that in some future tense, like I don’t already need you.”

His forthright statement made her slink in the chair. She hadn’t anticipated the directness.

They sat in silence. A careful balancing of thoughts. The black sky leaned into its lack of depth. Darkness closing out the light on his face.

Instinctively, she reached for his arm. His tweed jacket out of grasp, her fingers trembled.

Another swirling rustle of leaves danced down the sidewalk. A turning and lifting movement that she followed with her eyes. Frozen. She didn’t trust her senses. He was within and without; he was gone.

She moved with the wind, rocking into its motion. A side to side sway. A heavy tear stuck on her skin. Another one waiting at the corner of her eyelid.

Her hand grazed the empty side of the tabletop. A void of space where his coffee had stood. An object on the edge, sleeping small. She knew she would find slumber the same way.

Claire fidgeted with her watch, positioning the glass face in the middle of her small wrist. Mesmerized, she focused on the consolatory revolution of the second hand. The wind whipped and swirled. The bluntness merging with infinity.

Reluctantly, she started to gather her belongings. She placed her phone in her purse. Slid her notebook and pen in her backpack. The weight of living.

With her sunglasses perched on the top of her head, she reached for the receipt that was secured beneath the coffee saucer. She brought it within her field of vision, adjusting to the minimal light. She had to confirm what she already suspected.

There was but one cup of brew listed.

She sighed heavily, the moored tear finding an outlet down her cheek. Glancing over at her remaining companion. A stranger. He nodded in her direction. Words sprung from his lips that caused a tremble. A sinister reassurance.

“We’re not alone.”