“What happened two hundred, five hundred, seven hundred years ago that we were kept apart? How many times have our souls crossed paths through the millennia and leapt with joy and recognition only to be ripped apart again because of circumstances?”
The questions the Australian had whispered in my ear while I lay on my side with my back against his chest and his arms around me replayed in my head tonight as I showered. The water beat a staccato rhythm on my back, flowing over my ass and legs, warming the skin. I scooped a handful of almond scented sugar scrub out of a glass jar and, starting with my ankles, vigorously rubbed the course paste over my body. I worked my way up, exfoliating my legs, hips, tummy and arms… thinking.
Our meeting that day was so unlikely—so fantastic—that the weavers of fate seem to have been involved. With just the tiniest adjustment of timing in either one of our journeys we would have continued through life with no knowledge of the other’s existence. But we did meet. And like magnets, we were drawn together.
I rinsed off the sugar scrub and filled my palm with shaving cream. Once lathered, I briskly ran the razor over my legs, efficient with my movements. Because tonight I had a plan. I would cleanse and groom in the shower and then run a deep, hot bath. That way I could curl up in the comforting, sudsy water with no agenda except to unwind and steep in my memories.
“12:49. That is the exact time I first saw you,” he told me.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because when you walked past me I felt this strange leaping inside my chest. It startled me. And I looked at my watch and thought, I’ll want to remember this moment.”
I hadn’t let myself savor a full moment-by-moment recalling of our interlude in quite some time. But after his email yesterday and the tailspin it sent me in, I felt like indulging tonight. The story is so beautiful, so bittersweet, so doomed from the beginning that it must be told. But not tonight. Because when I tell it, it will be some of the best writing I’ve ever put forth. And I’m too tired to write like that right now.
In answer to some of the questions raised after my last post… No, I haven’t written him back yet. But I will. I’m not sure what I’ll say yet, but my response will be calm, caring and free of angst. He didn’t tell me about the baby to hurt me. He knew I had wanted to know if he had a girl or a boy. I’m glad he wrote. It validates that he still thinks about me too. But that is all it ever can be. I know that. And I’m all right with that. If I could turn back the clock and return to our time together I would do nothing differently. I have no regrets.