Life Mimics Art

“Lovecraft fan, I see?” The man smiled with interest at the young woman. She closed the book bashfully, taking a quick side-eye at the young man.

“Oh yes, I’m a big fan of Science-Fiction; basically anything outside of the present.” Sam’s cheeks were now a shade of red as she fiddled with the book in her hand.

“The name’s Dylan.” His smile was pristine, she thought; his dark hair had been combed completely back without a hair misplaced; his jaw contoured and sharp, like the waning crescent of the moon.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dylan. I’m Samantha, or Sam you can call me.” There was an awkward pause between the two. The bookstore was tight-quartered, surrounded by oak bookshelves that were filled with used paperbacks—the scent of aged paper engulfed the ambiance, filling it with nostalgia. Though at this moment, they were seemingly alone.

“Isn’t it great, that these little bookstores are still around? These books have withstood the test of time, you know? Some of them were produced in the eighteen and the early nineteen-hundreds. So many stories; so many lives; all contained within this tiny, little room.” The man was holding a copy of Thomas Wolfe’s, Look Homeward, Angel.

“What’s that you’re reading?” She took an inquisitive glare towards the worn hardcover.

“Thomas Wolfe. He was prominent in the early nineteen-hundreds, but he didn’t get his fair shake.” The man flipped through the book with his thumb like a rolodex's motion, until the book came to a hollow thud as the hardcover enclosed the pages once again. “Enough about me, though; what is it about these Sci-Fi books that you’re so interested in?”

“Well… I really enjoy things outside of the realm of possibility. The world can become.. monotonous, I suppose would be the right word. This sparks an interest in something unfathomable, things you can only imagine in dreams.”

“Interesting…” Dylan harped upon something momentarily, and then returned to the conversation. “Why do you think these things cannot happen within this world?” Dylan began to walk slowly along the bookshelves and Sam followed acquiescently.

“I guess it’s because we never see them happen.” Dylan came to an abrupt stop, as did Sam.

“Steinbeck,” he reached for a used copy of Grapes of Wrath. “I’m sure the people in this novel thought the conditions they were placed in could only appear in Science Fiction.” He chuckled at his own comment before replacing the novel. “It’s hard to believe something until you see it, or better yet, feel it. Books, sometimes they can write the future; the whole, ‘art mimics life, or life mimics art’ conundrum. I’m a firm believer in that.” Dylan suddenly turned on his heel, again facing Sam. It was plastered all over his face: he was smitten by her riveting blue eyes, and the way her auburn hair spiraled across her collarbone. There was that insatiate glimmer within his eyes, as if he was staring at a treasure he had been at sea for, searching tirelessly. “You’re awfully gorgeous. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

Sam was taken aback by his comment, pushing her hair away from her face, now tucked behind her ear. “That’s quite kind, thank you.” Sam made eye-contact briefly before reverting her eyes towards the retro, emerald carpet. “Are you some kind of book aficionado? You seem to have a great love for them.”

“I guess you could say that. I find myself wondering if it's a physical love, for the feeling of the novel in my hands; or if it's the love of humanity, and the myriad of stories and endless possibilities that could somehow be written into something that could be immortalized, spanning many moons.” Dylan reached for another novel, the cover displaying a man in a striped shirt with a beige background. “Kerouac’s On The Road, for instance—it is still to this day influencing the younger generation.” Dylan smiled at the contents as he flipped through a few pages, before once again returning the book to its rightful position.

“That’s wonderfully said.” Sam was beginning to feel her heart flutter within her chest; the temperature in the room climbed drastically as perspiration sought her brow. “Say Dylan, where are you from anyway?” She continued behind his trek, watching as he ran his finger along the worn spines of paperback novels; they were creased and aged, like the faces of the elderly who had seen much, learning many lessons along the way.

“Another time.” Dylan turned around and smiled sardonically, suddenly disappearing down another aisle, leaving behind a gust of wind.

Sam stood bewildered by this sudden rise of emotion. She turned the corner moments after Dylan, peeking her head down the next aisle, to which it was of no avail. “Dylan?” She questioned softly before continuing through the aisle. She heard Dylan’s sentiments in her head; and now, the books had eyes and spirits, each of them watching conspicuously as she searched frantically for her admirer. When she came to the end, without spotting Dylan, her face was in peril. The front door was just ahead, which made her question his intent. “He wouldn’t leave, not like that.” She implied in her own thoughts. Then suddenly, she felt a sudden prod into her shoulder; when she turned, there was Dylan, standing just before her: his eyes now had purpose, and no longer were they soft and imploring, but rather in a fervor of lust. He leaned in to kiss Sam, to which she accepted his action graciously. The Universe had paused for a moment, just between these two: the Earth rotated while their time stood still. The mailman continued his duties; the train chugged along the tracks; the Policeman walked his beat. However, for these two, gravity had been suspended—a weightless entanglement—and their souls coalesced into unknown territories outside of this reality. Sam felt dispersed into the ether, stretched across all of eternity in this moment: their spontaneous love, a beautiful fulguration in the electric-expanse of time.

Dylan pulled away, his eyes crestfallen; Sam stood still, her legs trembled beneath her. She felt as if she had been teleported momentarily, now in shock. There was a moment of intrinsic silence between their gaze, before the needs of language had over-complicated humanity’s one-grand expression.

“I must be leaving…” Dylan’s tone and disposition was now melancholy.

“Leaving? Leaving to go where? You never even told me where you were from.” Her voice was entreating and there was panic in her mannerisms.

“I told you, I am from another time, Sam.” Dylan handed over a novel, the jacket covered in dust. “Please, do not be sad—our story has been written many times” Dylan kissed Sam on her forehead before he headed for the front door. He turned once more, facing her now disconsolate face. “Remember what I said earlier? Sometimes it may be that life mimics art.” And he vanished through the front door, dispersing out into the howling winds, filled with snowfall. Sam chased behind him, bursting through the door, her hair swept behind her as she faced the corridor of this New York Street.

“Dylan?!” She called out, beseeching his presence; however, he was gone. The long stretch of street showed no indication of his being, nor did the snow display the fresh footprints of one who had recently traversed this very sidewalk. There was now mass confusion settling within her before she returned inside of the bookstore. There was a bound connection, lost abroad upon this vast planet, she thought in her dejected state; although, within her, she felt that it could never become untethered, no matter where she would exist upon it.

That night, Sam blew the dust off the jacket from the book Dylan had given her. The cover read: “One Last Moment: A Time Traveler's Final Kiss”. She opened the first page, to which it read: “A Love Story, to my deceased wife, Samantha” A Novel by Dylan Burbank—1862.