Two strangers met by chance on the deck of a coffee shop in Pacifica. She was sitting on a wooden chair, reading her Kindle. He was walking around with a coffee cup and a book, looking for a place to sit.
She invited him to sit next to her, there was an empty chair, one she usually saved for her domestic partner. The stranger sat down and began to read. Curious, as she always was, she glanced at the cover of his book. The word language stood out.
She had been thinking about language all morning—how it changes, how it transforms, how it miscommunicates. She couldn’t resist sharing this with the stranger. He began to talk, and suddenly they were both immersed in the most beautiful conversation about books and authors. A conversation that lasted an eternity, broke the rules of time and space. She saw a light in his eyes, a recognition, something that went beyond language.
An hour later, her domestic partner returned, reclaiming his territory. She left, but not without sharing her contact information with the stranger, just in case. She thought, chances are she might never ever see him again.
That night, while her DP slept, and snored heavily, after a feast and half bottle of wine, she recalled the eyes of the stranger. She imagined, jumping from her chair, and sitting on his lap, grabbing his face and kissing him. Removing his pants, and she removing hers, and having him penetrate her right there and then. She played the scene on her head while she played with herself.
Following night, a notification landed on her phone. A stranger, a name. One first name. A drop in her panties, the need to sing, and write a poem. Why am I so happy? she asked herself, forgetting when was the last time she had been this happy. It was a strange kind of happiness. The kind that changes everything around you, and makes it look more and more beautiful. The kind that turns everything into a poem, and every light and shadow into a painting.
How is it possible for a stranger to feel so familiar? Oscar Wilde says that the best romances, the best lovers, are the ones we know nothing about. We fill in the blanks with our own expectations; we make them perfect for us. They say exactly what we want to hear and love doing the same things we do.
In my fantasy, the stranger—now my imaginary lover—is a poet, a beautiful writer, single, living in a rented one-bedroom apartment near Polk. He is surrounded by books, notebooks, and posters of ancient cities, mixed with images of distant galaxies. There’s a guitar in one corner, and he has a hard time finding a girlfriend.
Little by little, fragments of truth surfaced—small details, casually revealed—that made her realized the stranger was similar and also far from the version she had imagined.
Then, unexpectedly, an email arrived—a year or so later—and rekindled the fire. It revealed the one thing her fantasy had gotten right: he was a poet, a beautiful, sensitive writer.
Night after night, she flew into his arms. They made love, read poetry, watched the stars through a telescope. She painted him naked. It didn't matter who he was, who he was with, what he does on Sundays, none of it mattered! you don't spoil poets by having relationships with them. With poets you have affairs and pervert sex that intensifies their fire. No commitments, no attachments, no unnecessary information... The stranger most remain a stranger; the writer must remain anonymous..
Now she fears that her deviant desire perhaps became too obvious in their exchange...She realized that once again she had recreated in her mind a version of him that didn’t exist.
The stranger most remain a stranger; the writer must remain anonymous. This story will remain unread, unknown. Unwritten.
Unknown
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