(Day)Dream Date

He wondered what it might be like to be loved by her. Sat alone at a table for two in the centre of the bar they’d agreed to meet at, she was even more beautiful than her pictures could have illustrated. It sounded a cliché, he thought, but it was the most picturesque cliché he’d ever experienced. The early evening sunlight pierced through the dusky windows and spilled across her profile, casting the most idyllic silhouette onto the exposed brick wall behind her. The way her face reflected the light was almost poetic; highlights and shadows bounced across her skin in harmony. She’d pulled her auburn hair back into a loose bun, but a few stray tresses fell back gracefully onto the nape of her neck, and some forward to frame a serene expression on her face. It was a face that brought him peace and inspired adoration, but also a face which spoke of pain and heartache.

She had draped her jacket onto the back of her chair and set a book down on the table in front of her. He thought about what kind of literature she might read: perhaps a collection of essays by Nietzsche or an anthology of poems by Neruda. He abandoned the book to gaze again at her beauty. Neruda, definitely Neruda. She sat with a quiet sureness that called for - nay, demanded, attention. She wore a beryl blouse which accentuated one of the many shades of green in her eyes. Her gaze drifted from the leatherbound menu on her table, to a couple at the back of the room who were nestled in each other’s arms, and onto the empty seat meant for him, before finally settling onto a waiter, who had just arrived to deliver the glass of merlot she’d ordered to keep her company.

She thanked the waiter and smiled, revealing a hidden dimple on her left cheek. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but he always thought it was the smile. She then reached for the glass and breathed in the wine before taking a sip. Her lips met the glass in the most melodious of ways. She set the glass down and delicately turned her wrist outwards to check for the time. He did the same. 18.10. He was late.

His hand reached for the door, but he couldn’t quite turn the handle. 18.11. He hesitated as he realised that in that moment, that single snapshot in time, in all her ostensible faultlessness, she was so agonisingly unattainable. 18.12. Close enough for him to know she was all he’d ever want in a person, and also to know he would never truly deserve her. 18.13. Yes, he wondered what it might be like to be loved by her. By someone as perfect and seemingly whole as she was. And he longed for a parallel universe where someone as damaged as he was could accept such a love, knowing this was not it. 18.14. So, he dropped his arm to his side and ever so slowly, so defeatedly, stepped back from the door. He had chosen to walk away from the abstract happy ending he’d laid before himself, before their tale together could begin. 18.15. Because to do so now, would be to spare her a much crueller, although more distant, end.

He began his walk home. His walk away from a fantastical future he so deeply wanted for. He thought about that future and how bitter it would be to have found it, only to lose it once again. But then he thought about how that love would be all the more sweeter knowing it was fleeting. And with that thought he stopped and turned abruptly in the direction of the bar. He checked his watch. 18.25. He made for the bar and, picking up speed, wondered how he’d apologise for his tardiness. How could he explain showing up late for the beginning of what he hoped would be the rest of his life? Arriving at the bar once again, he stopped for a moment to gather himself. 18.30. He pushed the door open and looked to the centre of the room where he’d left her. But she was gone. As was her jacket and her book, which he’d never learn the title of. And all that was left, was a half empty glass of merlot.