I write poems you’ll never read and fantasize a life with you. I found a house— with a turret for me, and conservatory for you. And everything would be perfect, if we could meet, but I don’t know where or when that would be.
I shake my head sadly, crumple the note into a ball, and toss it into the fire. Another lost Friday night in a series of desolate forays into the void.
Hell, today, I turned thirty-five—what will I do for the rest of my life?
I pour out the last of The Yellow Tail, toast my shadowy walls and get up and stare out the window at the rain.
She’s out there somewhere right now, waiting for me—my other half out there longing for me, and for all I know, staring into the rain.
I suppress a wry smile that slowly turns to a yawn, and find myself wending my way back to my bedroom, calling it a night at eleven o’clock.
Happy Birthday, Me.
“Have you got any other books about romance? —I’ve read all of Nicholas Sparks. I need something new.”
I look at the older woman—she’s beautiful, sophisticated and lonely—comes in every Monday looking for a fantasy to sustain her through her lunch break. She’s a lot like me.
“Have you considered reading a classic novel, Mrs. Winslow—something like Wuthering Heights?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I could wade through Victorian English—I hated Shakespeare in school.”
I smile, “that was then, this is now—you’re more mature and have more life experience—you’ll understand Bronte, and this kind of love story is exactly what you’re looking for.”
She looks at me narrowly, assessing my words, and then her face brightens. “You know, I think you’re right, Paul—I shouldn’t sell myself short—and you’ve never steered me wrong in the past.”
I fetch the novel, tuck in a complimentary bookmark and ring up the sale. “Try it for a few days—if it’s not your cup of tea, bring it back and I’ll find you something else.”
She reads the inside cover. An intense, lyrical portrayal of love—two souls whose passions entwine… “Sounds marvellous, Paul.”
She leaves with a sunny smile on her face.
It does sound marvellous, but for me, I’m beginning to lose faith.
That night I watch a film on TV—Bell, Book & Candle.
I love the plot, love Kim Novak’s purring voice and see myself like Jimmy Stewart, minus being engaged—okay, and minus the lucrative career in publishing. But basically, we’re the same—two shmucks looking for love and not finding it.
It’s raining again and I go to bed with the haunting melody of Stormy Weather playing in my head.
I have a dream. I’m at a party, which would be a first for me, since I hate that kind of shallow crud—yeah, it’s a well-rehearsed line that’s my apology for my non-existent social life.
Anyway, I’m off by myself on a balcony, staring at the rain, when I hear a girl come into the bedroom behind me. She’s crying, and sits on the edge of the bed.
I come in and do something really weird for me—I sit down beside her to comfort her. She turns her tear-stained face to me—and I kiss her.
Not a word is exchanged—but I am set afire by her lips. Her mouth tastes cold and fresh as if she just finished an icy drink—and those cold kisses totally inflame me—completely possess me.
I have no idea where we are, but everything looks so familiar. She’s whispering to me, telling her name and where she lives and all I can think about are those cold, lingering kisses—and I want to plunder her lips again.
And then, I wake up in my cold bedroom—shadowy rain trails from the light outside patterning the walls. And I am more bereft and desolate than I have ever been.
I go back to sleep and try to re-dream the dream—it’s futile. It always is. But, it was incredibly real, if only I could remember her name, or where she lives.
This goes on all night—flashes of her lovely face—tantalizing fragments of conversation—whispers filling my head, but nothing tangible I can pursue.
The next day is spent in a fog, being half-in and half-out—reviewing every aspect of my dream and exasperating myself.
It goes on like that all week. I even purchase a copy of the film and watch it again in a vain attempt to recreate the mood—no luck.
On Friday afternoon, I’m locking the shop, when a streetcar rumbles by—it triggers a familiar feeling inside.
I abandon my car and run to the corner stop—fortunately, the light is red and I’m able to climb aboard. So far, so good—but what now?
The streetcar rumbles west, heading out of downtown, and I sit and stare out the window at shop windows sliding past and wonder where the world is hiding her—my nameless, faceless soul mate with the cold, cold kisses.
The streetcar rumbles along for a half hour until it approaches the end of the line. There’s a loop in the park where it stops and something prompts me to get off.
Okay, I’m standing on the edge of a park, not knowing why. Yup—that about sums up my life—well, not quite—it begins to rain.
I watch the lighted windows of the streetcar fade in the distance as a cold wind picks up. I turn up the collar of my Harris Tweed sports coat, do up the two buttons, and begin walking up Parkside Drive in the direction of the subway.
“Paul Laine! Is that you?”
I turn to see Ernie, my old friend from university—I haven’t seen him in years.
“I don’t believe this,” he crows, “what are you doing out in this neck of the woods—did you get tired of Rosedale?”
I shake my head. “Naw, nothing like that Ernie—I just had this urge to take a ride on the old Red Rocket—a bit of nostalgia, I guess—you know me.”
He throws an arm around me and I smell alcohol off his breath. “I do know you, Pal—and I miss you—that’s why you’re coming home with me. It’s my birthday today and Irene threw me a party.”
“Really— your birhday? That's cool, but no, I can’t do that, Ernie, I have to get home—it’s getting late.”
Ernie’s bug eyes pop—he always struck me as a walking case of goiter, or something.
“Wadda ya mean, late?” he growls. “Hell, it’s just seven-thirty. C’mon along—you’ll know most of the people—they’re our old crowd from college. You like nostalgia—live a little.”
“Well, I guess I can stay for a bit,” I concede.
He slaps me hard on the back, and exhales a boozy whoop, “That’ s the old Lainey I used to know.”
We walk back though side streets, until Ernie turns up the walk of an old Victorian manse—a beautiful stately home with two wrap-around porches—one on ground level, and the other on the second floor.
Irene greets us at the door—she looks prettier than I remember and seems genuinely happy to see me.
“Look who Ernie brought,” she calls out merrily to the guests. I’m instantly surrounded by aged, familiar faces.
This is Dante’s Purgatory—Ernie’s my guide, and I’m expiating past sins.
Eventually, someone hands me a glass of cab sav, and I retreat into the bowels of the great house, ostensibly wanting to check out the architecture—but actually, just wanting to check out.
I find my way to the second floor and wander through a few rooms until I spot some French doors that lead to the upper verandah. I go outside, take a deep breath and inhale the scent of Maples and rain. I like this house and the street.
I could live here, I tell myself.
I hear a noise behind me—someone enters the room. I shrink back into the shadows to escape detection, until I hear a familiar sound. A girl is crying.
I peek through the glass of the French doors and see a girl, sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, shoulders heaving.
Instinctively, I go to her, sit down and begin comforting her.
She pulls back the tresses of her long blonde hair and looks up at me. She is lovely, and oh, so vulnerable.
I lean in to console her and find my lips drawn to hers. Her mouth is cold and I become lost in a dream of cold, cold kisses.
Turns out her name is Sarah—Sarah Bashert, and ironically lives only a few blocks away from me. She’s a flutist with the Toronto Symphony, and like me, is seeking a reason to get up each day and continue walking around.
I suggest we do just that—share her umbrella and walk in the rain.
It's strange... she loves stormy weather, and fires at night and streetcar rides. So far, so good—everything seems remarkably familiar. We spend the night listening to blues in an all-night coffee house.
At 3 am, I take her home and kiss her outside her door. It’s all so natural.
We make a date to meet for lunch the following day and the symphony the next night. As far as I know it will go on this way, hopefully for the rest of our lives.
It seems we stood and talked like this before —we looked at each other in the same way then...but now I know where and when it all begins.
