I am listening to Comet’s Tail as I write this—an attempt to clear the haze that has clouded my mind since our most recent tryst. I guess the mist in my mind will remain there for a long time. But I am fine, surprisingly, save for the fact that I can’t keep my mind from wandering off to that night at Conspiracy. The scenes and the sounds continue to play back in my memory.
Like now. I am sitting there again, with you beside me. You are fervently holding my hand, like you’re afraid I would drift away the moment you let go. Cynthia is propped up on her humble throne in front of us, singing and strumming our secret story, while leading the rest of the audience to believe that this is their night, too. Once in a while, she flashes a sly smile—the only clue to the three-way conspiracy.
We are oblivious to the crowd. To us, they are non-entities, faceless people who just happened to be there. Unlike you and me and Cynthia, who are all there with a purpose. This is the night that we begin to write our symphony. Right here, in this dark, intimate room, with another kindred spirit to keep us company.
Two people facing each other on the coffee table for two. They are not talking, but they seem to be fine just looking each other in the eye. His hands, though, are gently touching each of her elbows. Funny, but these fools look as though this is all that matters.
A crazy couple consumed by the madness of each other—this must be what the sane world sees when it looks at us. But does it matter? I guess not. They will never understand. They will think it’s preposterous of us to assume that fate went out of its way to lay out a series of chance happenings to bring us together. Why, are we that important? They will think us fools for believing that the truest of loves can spring from fortuity. They will laugh at us, and warn us that we’re not being wise for our age and experience.
But we know better, babe. We will laugh back at them, and we will look at them with pity because they do not know what they are missing. They will never know how the slightest touch can feel almost like a lightning bolt. They do not have the slightest idea of how it feels like to find your half—or to be found by your half—and just know it’s a perfect match because you can almost hear the click of the pieces falling into place.
Too bad, babe. They will never know that.
