Member-only story
A Far-Off Memory
In dreams, she looked exactly the same.
It happens like a spark meeting tinder.
One locked gaze. His heart stammers in his chest.
Her eyes flit away, scared, just like the rabbit heart she’s likely cradled since infancy. His gaze never leaves — not really. But she rushes away, books clasped to her chest, as she flees the library’s lobby.
It would do no good to give chase. He pockets his library card and picks up the book he has just checked out. It’s a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets — something he wanted to study further for fun. But now he wonders if he has just lost a muse before he ever had her.
He’s not a writer, but he craves the written word. In his dreams, his fingers are stained with ink. And her — he’s seen that visage before, almost through a fogged glass, his hand meeting hers palm to palm as they circled each other. It had been too easy to discount a dream as being the symptom of having read too many Regency novels. But he’s never been imaginative enough to craft a woman from bits and bobs in the realm of the subconscious.
His worries bleed away when he sees the woman reenter the lobby. She peeks around as if she is an undercover detective in some British drama. His lips quirk as she spots him. He almost thinks to wave at her, as if that will do a thing to eradicate the strangeness.
She sees familiarity. He can sense it from the way her eyes warm. Her whole body is a tensely coiled spring.
“Hello,” she says, blushing. In dreams, she looked exactly the same.
They will not dance a waltz tonight as they might once have done in another life, but the least he can do is buy her a cup of coffee.
