It's a Long Way

Water dropped from the green-painted pits of the porch on the other side of the door. Right there, by the counter that faced the gleam of the lake. It dropped and dropped just like the clock ticked and ticked in my back. It all ticked and dropped, it all dropped and ticked.

And still, she wasn't there.

I wasn't expecting her to show up on time. I wasn't even expecting her to show up. At all. The opaque clouds I had expected, the fog wrapping around the inn I had foreseen, even the rain at the foot of the mountain, I had imagined.

But her showing up, no. Not even in my wildest dreams. The ones that smack me out of sleep, panting and sweating.

No, not even in there.

But she did show up.

She entered the restaurant with her hair soaked with rain and her dress floating in the air. It had fall colours. It wasn't brown, it wasn't burgundy. It was plum with a touch of gold, although I couldn't really tell what the touch was like. I was sitting too far from her and I couldn't see much from that side of the restaurant. The only thing I could say was the golden dots hovered like falling leaves in the wind, on the light fabric that covered her soft body. As if someone had sprinkled them over her sheer sleeves, softly for long hours.

I wanted to touch them. Only for a second.

But I sat there watching, from afar.

She entered the restaurant and everything stopped. Even the Earth stopped spinning, even the fog fell off its suspension outside. Conversations hushed and waiters froze, as if they had all witnessed the golden sprinkles on her dress. Or her red waves curling with wet. Or perhaps her gaze. Half-absent and half-deep.

She asked for someone's name as she reached the counter. I couldn't hear the name but her lips articulated it. I couldn't say whether she enjoyed pronouncing it. But I wish she did.

The owner of the inn shook her head and hinted at the table by the window, at the front of the restaurant and a grey waiter led her to her seat.

She sat down at the two-person table, rubbing her light sleeves with her thin hands, as if to warm up herself. Perhaps she was anxious, perhaps she was nervous.

She leaned her chin on her hand and she turned her face towards the platitude of the lake, on the other side of the window. Her red curls were too thick for me to decipher anything. Even her reflection in the window was blur from my spot. I took another sip of wine and washed my dry mouth with it.

The waiter asked if she wanted anything to drink, she said no with her head. It was a slight no, as if she was sacrificing the condensed warmth of a solitary hot chocolate to a joint drink with the person who was keeping her waiting.

Over my shoulder, another waiter asked if I wanted more cheese with my onion soup and I spilled what remained of my glass of wine on the floor. I hadn't noticed that idiot. He called the kid of the owner to clean the dark spot on the parquet and I urged them to leave me alone.

The waiter offered me another glass of wine to apologise and I didn't even look at him.

All I cared about was there, in front of me, in high leather boots and golden sprinkles of longing.

As the kid approached my table with the new glass of wine, I slipped a bill of ten in his tiny hand and asked him to repeat to his mum, the receptionist at the counter, a couple of words. He nodded his boyish face and I whispered my message in his ear ...

The receptionist looked in my direction as her son passed on my message and I looked back at my soup, as if I had nothing to do with the news, as if some other customer had come up with that message for the woman in fall colours.

The receptionist frowned yet walked over to the table that faced the lake and told the woman in plum and gold the person she had been waiting for had just called to leave a message. They were still on the road, stuck because of the rain, but would soon reach the restaurant. She should wait for them, they said.

The woman revealed her high canines, a squared smile that gave her face that sophisticated look. Just like that high chin and that thin neck I wish I could caress. But my spot in that restaurant, as I said, was too far from her skin.

Those high canines were a sign of relief, of comfort. She was comforted in knowing the person was down the mountain fighting the rain in their old car, but hadn't forgotten her. Seeing her smile with relief made me smirk for some reason.

She played with her hair and opened her tiny bag to fetch a mirror and look at her nose in the powder case. I wanted to buy her a drink. Just to see if she would respect the oath to her friend, down the mountain, who said she should wait for them. I called the boy again and asked him to bring her a glass of wine. If she said no, I could offer her a hot chocolate or pass on a new message...

The boy went running to the kitchen and, soon after, a long silhouette approached her with the glass of wine I had ordered.

She raised her eyebrows and looked around with swift head moves that shook off the last drops stuck in her curls. I could have bitten those curls and sucked the water out of them. They would smell the lys, for sure, like in the old days.

But my spot was too far from her. And my neck too short.

She refused the glass with a polite gesture. The waiter strode in my direction, with the glass, to let me know she had declined. He handed it to me, there, right under the small alcove where I was hiding as if that could change a thing. I glanced back at the onion soup as it seemed her eyes had followed the waiter to figure who had offered her a glass.

But as I looked up slightly from my bowl, I noticed she was still looking through the window.

I had expected none of this.

Of all the scenarios I had made. Of all the stories I had written aloud in my head, none of this I had foreseen.

But there I was.

And there she was.

I pushed my chair backwards and my heart shook as it rubbed the wood of the floor.

I stood up from my chair and grabbed my cane, hitting the knob with my palm.

I was there and there she was.

I hated the noise of the cane as it hit the floor. I hated how the few customers in the inn looked over me and my leg, looking away right afterwards, as if that could give me peace.

I hated myself at that very moment for orchestrating that situation.

And I push one leg and drag the other in her direction, as if to humiliate myself more.

Her eyes landed on me just as I reached her table. Her absent gaze snapped into reality as she saw the scar that halved my face and the knob I clang onto with my palm.

Her lips parted but no sound came out.

She rose up from her chair in silence and her arms circled around my waist.

Her neck smelt of lys. I rubbed my nose into it, slowly. From side to side.

She looked at me with her eyes that hadn't lost their innocence.

"I'm so glad you came," she said.

"It was a long way," I said.