I wondered if my constant lucid dreams about Sara brought about the very conditions that allowed us to meet?
It seemed Destiny brought us together, but then again, Hilda Thornton, chairperson of the College Liaison Committee, was the actual agent of Fate. She arranged the weekend meeting that would bring Sara and me together.
Obviously, Hilda was not under the influence of my telepathy, so Fate must have been actively involved.
Regardless of how our stars aligned, I had an opportunity to reconnect with Sara provided she showed up and assuming that she’d be willing to give me a second chance.
I could barely wait for Friday evening to see how events turned out.
Hilda phoned me Friday to confirm the invitations had been sent out and about a half dozen of us agreed to attend.
I was dying to ask her which Faculty members responded from York University but I was reluctant to divulge my real desire.
Besides, I committed to the weekend and it amounted to a command performance of sorts, even if Sara turned down the invite.
I left the university right after my afternoon lecture and headed to the farm to get things set up for the evening session.
I’d arrive with several hours to spare, but I wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly—besides, I could spend the time preparing for what I’d say to Sara if she actually attended.
I suppose it was less nerve wracking than driving up later full of anxiety and dread about the evening.
I prepared the camp site and built a bonfire and transported the food and wine along with ice-cold beer in coolers.
Everything was perfect and I checked and re-checked my inventory to make sure I had omitted nothing.
My portable radio was tuned to a local radio station and light jazz music was playing softly in the background.
It was a romantic setting by the pond with tiny lanterns lighting the path down from the main house.
Hopefully, the ambiance of the scene would work its magic.
I glanced at my wrist watch and noticed it was just past seven—Within an hour the first few staff would start to arrive.
Suddenly, an announcer interrupted the program for a traffic update—the main highway was closed because of an oil tanker spill and wasn’t expected to be re-opened until the following afternoon at the earliest.
My spirits sunk. Not only would there be no attendees this evening, but I was marooned in the country condemned to spend the night wallowing in disappointment bereft of Sara once again.
Serves me right, I mused, how stupid of me to think I could somehow reach out to Sara by some form of soul-to-soul communication.
I actually found myself colouring in embarrassment as the full extent of my naiveté was portrayed ed before me in the empty spots around the campfire.
People say there’s no fool like an old fool, but age has its privilege, and middle aged men often display an equally foolish presumption of vanity without the excuse of nostalgia for past glory.
I felt as puerile as the young love-struck boy in Joyce’s Araby, seeing myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
