She Dreams of Fire

2.

Mat

He checks his watch, 2:22 PM. Dammit. He’s going to be late. Again. Anxiously combing his fingers through his hair, Mat throws it into a bun, grabs something from the ‘somewhat clean’ pile of clothes on his floor, and races into the bathroom. He stares at himself, allowing fragments of a dream-- fire, a forest storm, a girl, to float through his brain for just a moment before deciding that he doesn’t have time to shave...or brush his teeth. Thanking himself as he sees fresh coffee in the pot, he shoves on his shoes, fills up his cup, and slams the door behind him. Darting through his lawn, Mat chucks his bag, his thermos of coffee, and finally himself into his car before throwing it into reverse. He puts his seatbelt on, untoasted bagel in mouth, as he pulls out of his driveway. 

Anxiety builds as he goes over the next twenty minutes of his life on repeat: Maybe if there’s no traffic on Berwyn I can get to the school faster, park in the lot-- wait they’re doing construction so it’s going to take me more time and ugh-- His train of thought is interrupted by the thump crash of a pothole. Right, that’s why they’re doing construction. He decides to cut his losses, and try to ease his panic by reminding himself that his students aren’t going anywhere, and they probably expect him to be late at this point. Yet there’s still that ever-present fear that he won’t make it in time seemingly stuck to the back of his eyeballs. 

The lecture, his own lecture, seems to drag on forever. He can’t get the dream out of his head. When it’s finally finished, and he’s finally gotten Henry to stop gushing to him about the Minoans, he feels the headache start to bubble up around his temples. He needs a drink. Instead of sitting around in rush hour traffic, Mat decides to take a walk. 

He shivers, regretting his lack of any foresight to grab a scarf, or a hat, or even a jacket, and pulls his blazer tighter around him. He ducks into the first cafe he sees, eager to get out of the cold, but disappointed that they don’t serve alcohol. 

His pulse picks up as he locks eyes with the barista. He’s been to this cafe before, occasionally, to work on his lectures or his book, but it’s been a while since Mat ran into Jessie. Beautiful, tall, thick brown hair, always going on about art, or music, or museums-- wait, was that...was I being flirted with?-- exactly Mat’s type. But let’s be honest, his type is almost anyone. 

Every smooth line Mat was practicing on the short walk to the bar disappears from his mind as Jessie says, “Hey, it’s been a while,” With those eyes and that smile and yeah, Mat’s been staring for too long. 

So he stumbles over the word “cappuccino,” and then into a seat at a small circular table facing the front window. 

With Mat’s coffee comes a bonus croissant plus Jessie’s phone number scribbled onto a napkin. And although he’s still mortified from their awkward interaction, maybe he’ll actually dial the number one of these days. 

The pride of an almost successful flirtation subsides and is replaced with something more nagging. He feels a pressure on the side of his face, followed by a tingling sensation that runs from his arms into his fingertips. A gentle push from the universe. He instinctively looks out the window and freezes when he sees a flash of yellow hair. The girl. It’s the girl, from the dream it’s her. This plays on repeat in Mat’s mind before he knows he needs to leave. Now. 

At the risk of being rude, he clumsily grabs his briefcase and jacket, and dashes out the door. He comes back seconds later, shoving the rest of the croissant into his mouth, and grabbing the number left for him. A small part of him wishes Jessie was still at the counter so he could do something bold, like leave with a wink and a smirk all of his own.

Chewing with a fervor of someone who desperately wants to get the attention of someone else just out of reach, but whose mouth is filled to the brim with delicious, flaky, croissant, Mat marches along, arms outstretched; a greasy-mouthed Frankenstein full of anxiety and carbs. 

He finally chokes out a “wait--,” but, again, it’s muffled by pastry. Luckily, or maybe carefully orchestrated by something bigger than this moment, the light on the crosswalk switches to a solid red hand, and Mat can catch up with her. He quickly realizes that not only has he never met this person, he also has no idea what to say to her. So instead he taps her on the shoulder. 

Whirling around with lighting speed, the girl stares at Mat, first with confusion, then with realization, then with fear. Working with the latest emotion, she forces Mat’s arm behind him and swiftly guides him into a nearby alley. The girl sizes him up and shoves him against the bricks, face first.

Making sure nobody saw their little detour, she leans in close, lips inches away from Mat’s ear. 

“Who the hell are you, and why are you following me?” 

In response, Mat’s body says hot, his brain says danger, and his intuition says safe. His mouth, however, confusing the phrases: f**k yes, with I promise I’m not stalking you, says “f**k, I’m stalking you!” Which is not at all the message he intends. 

He can feel fear pulsating through her, and knowing how impulsive people can be under its influence, he realizes he has to work fast. 

“Okay, so I can see you’re freaked out, and I think it’s safe to say that so am I,” Mat begins, “but My name is Mat, can you please stop hurting me so I can explain a few things?”

The girl relaxes the smallest amount, but not enough to release Mat from her grip. “Explain ‘a few things’ first, and we’ll see what happens.” 

The next five sentences rip through Mat as though if he doesn't get them out of his mouth in under 30 seconds, he’ll die a horrible, fiery death. “Okay so maybe I can travel into dreams and that’s why you saw me last night and I’m so sorry honestly I didn’t mean to I don’t really know how to control it and I’m definitely not stalking you and I know that you probably don’t trust me but think about it we’ve only ever met in your dream last night.”

Blabbering aside, and against her better judgment, Mel believes him. She finally releases him from the armbar and turns him around to face her. “Do you want to get a drink?”