Chapter 8 Him
Him
Then
It’s been six months, and I’ve thought of you often.
The way those small round spectacles drew attention to the jade sparkle of your eyes.
Even at the end, after your light had gone out, they shone for a while longer, almost as if you were still in there somewhere, looking back at me.
But now the memory is fading, and I can feel my need growing once again.
The desire for a new love. Even if my affection goes unrequited until those final, delicate moments when our fates become tangled for a few glorious hours.
I think I’ve found my next relationship.
I’ve been looking for a few weeks. At first it was halfhearted, because turning my affections to someone else meant letting go of you, my jade-eyed love.
Admitting that our moment had passed. I still remember the first time I saw you on a sun-drenched Saturday morning at the farmers’ market on the bank of the Charles River, with the grand old buildings of Cambridge in the distance across the water.
You were carrying a cloth bag from the bookstore in Davis Square that isn’t there anymore.
It had a picture of an owl wearing spectacles on it, and I wondered briefly why owls, above other birds, are associated with reading.
Perhaps it’s because they are seen as wise.
I followed you for a while, compelled by some unknown force.
You stopped at a produce stand, purchased some apples from a local orchard.
When you put them in the bag and looked in my direction, I saw another pair of spectacles.
Those small round glasses balanced so perfectly on the bridge of your nose. From that moment on, I was enthralled.
That’s how it always goes. Some little quirk that sucks me in.
A chance encounter that leads to happiness.
I went back to that same market last week, perhaps believing that if I met someone else in our special place, it would be a sign from beyond that you were good with me moving on. But no one caught my eye.
Today, though, it’s different. I spotted her a few minutes ago standing at the counter in the coffee shop and waiting for her order.
She’s nothing like you, Jade. You had a nerdy aura.
You dressed like you didn’t know the power of your beauty.
You wore jeans and baggy T-shirts. Flannel pajamas to bed. Kept your hair in a ponytail.
This one is your exact opposite. She wears a knee-length black skirt and tube top that offers a glimpse of her pale, thin belly.
The clothes look casual, but I can tell they’re expensive by the way they fit.
Her hair is loose and free. A cascade of black silk that tumbles over her shoulders and reaches halfway to her waist.
At first, I’m not sure if she’s the one.
A worthy successor to you, Jade. But then she reaches for her coffee, and I see the tattoo.
The little thing that makes her perfect.
It’s on her forearm, right above her wrist. The dark outline of a raven sitting on a branch and silhouetted within a crescent moon.
In Greek mythology, ravens are considered messengers of the gods.
Is this a message from you, I wonder? The approval I crave.
I can’t help but stare, fighting the impulse to move closer and get a better look. There will be time for that soon enough. When she leaves, I rise from my table in the back corner, drop my half-full cup into the trash, and follow her out onto the street.
She steps toward the curb, and for one terrible moment I think she’s looking for a taxi.
A ride that will whisk her off to somewhere unknown and out of my life before we’ve even had a chance to connect.
But then she hurries across the street, dodging cars and a bicycle, before vanishing underground into the subway station.
I trail her down to the platform and watch her sip coffee as she waits for the train.
Is she on her lunch hour and heading back to work?
I doubt it. Not dressed like that. I mean, sure, there are places where such an outfit would be appropriate, but I’m not getting that energy.
So maybe she’s a student. Besides, most people don’t take the subway on their lunch hour. They go somewhere local. Quick.
When the train breezes into the station, she moves forward to board.
I do the same. Then, as I’m about to follow her onto the train, a high-pitched beeping sound distracts me.
My pocket vibrates. Shit. It’s work, and at the worst possible time.
I’m in my second year as a resident physician at Mass General, which is shorthand for “trainee with a degree,” and even though it’s my day off, I’m on call.
I pull out my beeper—yes, I know the device is an anachronism in the modern world of cell phones, but for some reason hospitals still use them—and check the message.
Code Orange. Mass casualty event. That sounds ominous, but it’s probably a pileup or a bus crash.
Maybe even a train derailment, which is unsettling, given my current location.
Regardless, it’s inconvenient, because if I respond to the Code Orange, I’ll lose her, and I don’t know what to do. But then, as she steps onto the train, I catch another glimpse of the tattoo and my heart beats faster. It is a sign from you. I’m sure of it now. You’re telling me what I need to do.
Pushing the pager back into my pocket, I follow her onto the train.
I might take some heat for ignoring it, but this is more important.
Then I stand, enraptured, and watch her from the other end of the carriage as the train starts to move.
Because she’s the one. I don’t know her name.
Not yet. But it doesn’t matter, because from now on, I’ll think of her only as Raven.