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I like to think of our paths crossing again, even if the scientist in me knows the improbability of that. On good days, I remind myself improbable is not the same as impossible. On the bad ones, I remember if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.
St. Louis Cathedral, New Orleans, Louisiana, Ten years later
It’s the back of her head I notice first. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as heads go, but this one signifies a certain kind of resolve. I’ve seen her here before. She stands apart from the others, just out of the aisle. She’s staring up at the ceiling, head slightly cocked, listening to the tour guide speak. This in and of itself is not unusual. Any number of people come here alone, looking for history, looking for a man, looking for guidance. Looking for something.
It’s the way she watches him that gets my attention. It’s her intense focus that holds it. Attraction is an invitation for greater knowledge, so I shift my stance, walk to the pew behind hers and slide in. When the guide stops speaking, she grips the edge of the pew in front of hers and shifts her weight. It’s her fingers I’m captivated by. They’re long and slim. Capable. I bet she plays.
Just when I think she’s going to turn and leave, and that I’m going to miss the pleasure of watching such an event, she pauses and glances around. She’s waiting for someone. And that someone is me.
Her eyes scan the rear of the church, and she looks toward the entrance. They say people often experience an extrasensory phenomenon that allows them to sense that they’re being watched. Scopaesthesia. She is gifted.
“Funny thing, those clichés,” I say, and she turns.
Now she doesn’t have to sense me watching her. She can know it.
I like what I see. She hasn’t changed much. At least not on the outside. Same confident shoulders, same precise features: small nose, large eyes, same capable chin, curves that hold the promise of peaks and valleys worth being explored. After all, the eyes control only twenty percent of the vote when it comes to senses.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as she leans forward, and I appreciate the way her blonde hair cascades, spilling into her eyes, covering her face. I wonder how that pretty face reads when she’s unsure of herself, and I like the way she doesn’t immediately move to brush it away. It shows she’s confident; it shows she’s comfortable in her surroundings.
She should be.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“What now?” she asks.
“The options are endless.”
She smiles. “You don’t know me. And I don’t even really know you. We know fantasy versions of one another.”
“And yet here we are.”
“The question is where do we go from here?”
“We could always move to a suburb. Start a church,” I say.
Her brow rises. “Seems a bit risky.”
“Yeah,” I agree. It’s like she’s reading my mind. “You’re probably right.”
She looks away. “Improbable,” she says as her eyes find mine. “But not impossible.”
