We met up at a
quaint café in Paris. It had been three
years since last we met. Cyrenia assured me that it was a nice and
quiet place that I would love. She sent me directions from the hotel
I was staying at and told me how excited she was to see me again. I
thanked her and expressed the same sentiment.
When I arrived at
the café, I learned that what she had said
about it was true. Somehow it had dodged the city bustle and hustle
and found clients who were there to enjoy themselves and relax in its
quiet environment. It was the exact kind of place I liked to frequent
in my university days when Cyrenia and I knew each other. Although
after spending most of the past few years deep in New York city, I
lost my taste for small cafés.
I looked about for
the face I had memorized in university, but it was nowhere to be
found. Instead I was waved down by a strangely familiar young woman.
I assumed it was Cyrenia and took a couple moments trying to draw a
parallel between the stylish Parisian and the storm of a girl I had
dated throughout my BA. But instead of seeing bright blue hair no
longer than her shoulders, basic jeans, and a rock band t-shirt, I
saw long blonde hair, small red rectangular glasses, a tight short
sleeved black shirt, and a high waist blue and white striped skirt.
Her old black backpack was replaced by a large and expensive looking
black purse.
“Shawn!” She
called out with a big smile against her pale face. I was glad to see
that something about her hadn't changed.
“Cyrenia! Wow! I
almost didn't recognize you! You gave up on the blue hair after all!”
I laughed.
I took a seat at
her table. It was submerged under papers covered in black scribbles,
save for where a tea pot and a tea cup sat like islands in an
infinite sea. I assumed that the papers were probably notes for a
book of hers. Her creative process was always all-consuming in its
exuberance.
“Yeah, it was too
much work and money.” She told me as she sat down and started to
collect the papers. Her Parisian accent was thicker than I had ever
heard it. “You've changed too. Your hair's not in a ponytail
anymore.”
I ran a hand
through my plain short brown hair. “Yeah, well, I couldn't be a
greasy slob forever. You working on a new book?” I motioned to the
irreconcilable mess underneath her heavy hand.
“Actually, yes.
The last one grew old. Thought I'd move on.” She answered as she
shuffled through them as if there could be some order to their
arrangement. Like a poet who follows another's creative laws, she
failed and hid them away in the recesses of her purse.
“What about?
Another thriller or horror?” I asked in remembering the
bone-chilling draft she had let me read three years prior, right
before her departure.
She shook her head
and blushed a bit. “This one's a love story. Two old lovers are
reunited after many years far from each other, starting a very long
and complicated love story of their overcoming of odds. It's mostly
about making a long-distance relationship work.”
I was shocked to
say the least. “A love story? Didn't you always proclaim how they
were overplayed and vastly overrated in society? I'm pretty sure I
have written proof that you vowed never to write one in the whole of
your life.”
“A lot has
changed since then...” She commented with a whisper.
The conversation
died with those all-too-true words. It went from the raging forest in
which we both flourished to a desert hostile to all life. We resorted
to empty small talk, soft breezes in the absence of hurricane
sentences. We tried to catch up like all old friends do, by talking
about what happened over the time apart, but it only emphasized how
much we had changed and how much we had missed in each other's lives.
At best, we could reminisce on the time we spent together, about that
time she dyed my ponytail hot pink, among other things. It was nice,
but ultimately reminded us of how long those times had been gone. We
were no more than strangers that had seen the same movie.
Finally, after a
long and awkward while of that, we decided to part ways.
“Well this was
fun.” I lied. “If you're ever in New York, hit me up. I'll show
you around!” I hoped she would never visit.
“I will!” She
said with a fake smile. “And if you ever come to Paris again, I can
show you around!”
“I'd like that!
Next time then!” I lied.
We hugged once
outside the café and positive that we were heading in opposite
directions.
“Take care! See
you soon!” She said politely as we pulled away.
I looked deep into
the eyes of the woman I used to love so dearly and found it easy to
walk away. “You too! Goodbye, Cyrenia!”
“Bye!”
We turned and
walked away with no desire to ever see each other again. The passing
of time had turned lovers into strangers.
-Zero
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