I’m going through a rough patch right now being contacted in dreams by a mysterious woman and unsure whether or not I’m losing my mind.
Tom Dunn, my therapist, assures me it happens to normal people and terms it an anomalous experience.
But I still feel off-balance and unsure because the experience is so real.
Maybe Tom would agree if he could be in my shoes and know exactly what I’m going through…
I mean, I just want to find this girl and spend my life with her—is that too much to ask?
It’s late when I complete my last student appointment, and I stay behind even longer to finish grading some term papers. When I finally emerge into the chill air, dusk is falling.
I hurry across the quadrangle, past Hart House, heading in the direction of my car, when a voice calls out, “Muir—is that you?”
I turn and spot Ketera Mills on the path behind me. I wait for her to catch up.
“You’re working late—such dedication,” she smiles.
“That’s me—endlessly toiling.” I deadpan.
“I was on my way to The Black Hart for a drink—had a dreadful day. You interested?”
Interested, was an understatement to describe my feelings for Ketera—I always admired her from afar, but had the distinct impression she was aloof and disinterested—especially, in me.
“Only, if I buy, I teased.
“She laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
When we get to the campus pub it’s already getting crowded and noisy.
I choose a shadowy corner, telling her it’s to avoid the stares of curious student eyes, but the truth is, I enjoy the ambiance of being alone in semi-darkness with her.
She always reminds me of Byron’s poem, She Walks in Beauty. Her hair, soft as clouds, gently obscures her face the way veils of dark mist hide the Moon.
And tonight, in the shadows, her raven tresses seemed to roll in waves and gently spill across her shoulders.
“You’re pensive tonight,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I colour, “I guess I am.”
It never occurred to me we had only spoken a few words in the time I knew her, and she ought to be unfamiliar with my moods.
“I overheard some students discussing your lecture today on Wuthering Heights—it sounded fascinating.”
“I’m flattered, I chuckle, “it’s hard enough at times to sustain their interest during the lecture, let alone afterwards.”
“I think everyone is stirred by deep, passionate feelings—that part where Heathcliff calls out to Cathy always touched me.”
“You amaze me—your specialty is Fine Art, but you read Bronte?”
“They’re not so unrelated as you may think.”
“What’s your favourite style of painting?” I ask her.
“My favourite artist defies classification.”
“Really? Who is that?”
“Chagall.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“Which paintings in particular?”
“I love all his paintings—the colours, the whimsy, the innocence—but I’m especially drawn to the canvases where lovers float above the town.”
I take a sip of my Shiraz, trying to steady my trembling hand. “And why are you drawn to those canvases in particular?”
“Because they are dreams,” she whispers.
I had to ask. “His or yours?”
“Mine,” she says, and stares at me with huge dark eyes.
I nod solemnly. We sit in hushed stillness such as I have only felt at church or in the dead of night after awakening from one of my dreams.
I gaze around the room at the arched doorways and windows, the stone walls, the echoing corridors outside the pub and feel I’m also awakening from a dream, a dream I only half understand.
And suddenly it dawns on me—this isn’t a chance meeting. This is Fate.
