On the breeze

I knew she was the one. Sarah Sollustrum. Every time I thought of her I could see a blonde river that splashed playfully across her slender shoulders. Ice blue eyes that caught mine in third grade continued to tease me for the remainder of my primary years. She was the girl that lived at the end of my street and I rode up and down that street regularly hoping to catch even just the briefest glimpse. She was truly beautiful, body mind and soul. Sarah was just the kindest girl in class and a true friend of everybody. She was the friend of everyone in the class, but somehow showed kindness to us all.

We drifted apart during our early high school years, her father moving to another state for work. The day Sarah left I could not face the world. My brother gave me so much crap but I did not care. Nobody could tell me how I felt about that girl, even if I was only twelve or thirteen. I knew back then, as I had always known. Those three years apart were torture, internal worse than external, though my brother tried to extend my agony.

At the end of twister season in 2010 my mum’s factory where she worked part time shut down and we too had to relocate. Sarah was the one who welcomed me at my new school, made my life worth living again and eased me through a challenging time. This joy of having Sarah back in my life lasted throughout the remainder of my middle school years, she even said yes when I asked her to the formal dance.

Then her family sent Sarah overseas to France to stay with an aunt and again I was a lost spirit. We kept in touch though, regular Facebook posts and personal messages. Sarah was the first to discover the great news when I scored my first writing contract and the first person I told via video chat that my story had been picked up by Netflix, Wizards, Warlocks and Witches was to be turned into a five episode series. Sarah’s star continued to rise as her natural beauty and her time at finishing school led her to a career as a model.

One writing success was followed by another and soon enough I discovered I was a house hold name. My short stories grew longer and longer until I was annually pumping out a best seller novel. My need for inspiration then, naturally, guided me to Europe and after a few years in Germany and a few months in Poland I migrated to France and felt like I was home. Sarah and I had kept in contact online but had not met face to face for years at that stage. She encouraged me to attend the winter show she was in, emailed me a ticket and I was thrilled to accept.

After the show she invited me back to her place for a drink. Drinks turned to kisses and my heart skipped a beat. This was the girl that I had loved all my life and this was the moment it seemed that she had discovered she loved me too. I plucked up the courage to officially ask Sarah out on a date, it was March 16^th and I was running a risk. The President had already announced the closure of many non-essential services. I managed to find a florist still selling those flowers that I knew Sarah loved, I had dug up an English language version of David Bowie’s Labyrinth (Sarah’s favorite film) and a bottle of something recommended by the majority of members from the wine club I belonged to. No restaurants and no cinema, I had to create our first official date in a far more simplified format.

And then the President announced 15 days lock down. For the benefit of all citizens of France my plans for Sarah were shot. My place was on the sixth floor and Sarah’s was on the fifth, but there was a whole empty street between us. That was when I first began my experiments.

The first was a letter crumpled up into a tight ball.

“Dearest Sarah, I cannot believe we have finally found each other only to be immediately forced apart…” said the message. I sent it out my open window via a makeshift slingshot only to watch it blow away in the breeze.

Next I scribbled the message again and creased the page down into the best paper plane I could manage. Its maiden flight caught the winter breeze. A strong gust coupled with a well-made plane, my message flew on and on and over that street to thud into the window of the third story of Sarah’s building. I held my breath as the window was raised. A mop of curly silver extended forth from the opening, followed by a face that looked like an aged apple. Squinting eyes peered up toward me, donned a pair of dish plate sized spectacles and then focused on my face, framed by my own open window. A claw of a hand claimed my paper plane and unwrapped it, revealing my message.

“Petit ami amoureux?” croaked the crone. My understanding of the tongue of romance translated this to mean ‘boyfriend’.

I pointed higher up the building to where I hoped Sarah awaited my contact.

The old woman sighed and then disappeared.

I held my breath and counted the seconds. Twice I had to breath in deep again, not quite sure what was to come next.

Eventually Sarah’s window opened and that gorgeous angel appeared. She waved the paper plane in my direction and laughed. Seconds later the old lady reappeared at her own window and waved.

“Oui, madam… Petit ami amoureux!” called Sarah down to the elder below.

The remainder of that afternoon passed by with Sarah and I calling out back and forth a mixture of English and French with our chaperone butting in with comments of her own.

That was our first date. It was soon followed by a plane flight back home to the States. Now two weeks on our relationship continues to grow, all thanks to a little primary school engineering and a lovely old French lady. My message of love even in such chaotic times was safely delivered on the breeze.