I was two things in my youth—a watcher of rainstorms and a chaser of skirts. Fortunately, the one redeemed the other and I emerged on the other side of my thirties as quite a decent person—and certainly, no one the young girls would laugh about.
When I looked in the mirror, I liked myself.
The Man in the Mirror discovered he actually liked women—not just desired them, but appreciated them. Hence, it happened that as a new life unfolded, I entered into a curious and convoluted relationship with Autumn Gardner.
Autumn is an artist who works in a variety of different media—oils and watercolors, stone and metal—she even uses fabric in fascinating and imaginative ways to make statements.
It may sound as if I admire and esteem Autumn, but generally, I hate her.
We met in Central Park, sitting on a bench and staring at clouds. It was not an idyllic beginning.
“You’re on my bench.”
“Excuse me?”
I was looking up into these beautiful huge gray eyes and thinking how they reminded me of the harbour and its gunmetal waves.
“Would you please move?”
I shifted over to the far end of the bench.
“No, I mean move to another bench.”
“Sorry, but that’s not happening.”
I always sat on this bench. It afforded me the best view through trees and buildings of my quarter of the sky. I was not about to give that up—even for a beautiful woman.
She harrumphed and sat down testily. I could feel waves of hostility. She bristled with a galvanic charge.
I noticed she was dressed like a fashion model—a Gothic black swallowtail coat and beneath a short gray and red plaid kilt. She looked snooty and privileged. I didn’t like her.
“You’re not very gallant,” she sniffed.
I was chewing on my cheek—I always do that when I’m tense.
“For your information, I’ve been coming to this bench for the past five years.”
“Does it have your name on it?”
I wanted to do her harm.
“As a matter of fact, it does.” I pointed to the carved initials and date. “—See? D.L. 4/01/19. That’s me.”
“Looks like an April Fool’s prank to me. What’s your name?”
“Derek Leitner,” I sighed.
Her gray eyes grew huge, if that were possible, considering they were so enormous to begin with. I mean, if the eyes are the windows of the soul, then this girl had picture windows—floor to ceiling, at that.
“You’re Derek Leitner, the author?”
“I am,” I said, hoping my slender claim to fame would cow her into submission.
“I read A Momentary Dream, I liked it.”
“What did you like about it?” I dreaded asking as soon as the words were out. I anticipated she’d remark on the characters or dialogue—they always did.
“I like the way you created atmosphere and mood. You write well about weather.”
She stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn’t anticipate that.
I was starting to think I might have to change my opinion of her...
And more than that, I was beginning to think she might end up changing my life.
