Classic
What I want is serendipity.
The haunting is a shimmer caught in the side of my eye but I’m sometimes lightheaded. The haunting is probably a rat running over the keyboard. The haunting is someone’s scent lifted by the breeze and it just happens to be the one she loved. The haunting is nothing more than a couple of coincidences. She called them synchronicities. The things that make you believe. She didn’t believe in time. She never owned a watch, so she was always late. My protests about her lateness fell on deaf ears. All this hurrying and scurrying, that’s what ages you so fast, she would point. Which is probably why I never see her reflection in the clock. Everywhere else I fancy her in windows, in bathroom mirrors, in oil spills in the street. What I want is serendipity to feel connected. Another one of her open letters to the universe. You are the universe itself, she would say and before I could say what or what’s the point of praying to yourself to guide you, she would already be in a deep dive into the mystical realities of our world. You never really know what’s going to happen, do you? You know, you are always where you’re meant to be, don’t you? Why worry when no one can make you feel anything without your consent, you know that right? I would have said something that would have her shake her head. Like planning or thinking or how people and things are unpredictable, but they can be managed. Like how easily she can bruise me out of the blue. Like the days and the places we were are now over though they are in us too. Like there is very little you can hold on to, so grab my hand, before it’s too late.
