FROM STRANGERS TO US

Chapter 1: The Night I Did Not Know It Was him. Before that night, I did not believe in fate. I have been a believer in coincidence, in chance, in people bumping into each other and never intending anything. I had thought that love was noisy, conspicuous, melodramatic, that it made itself known with certainty. I was wrong. The evening I met him, I was fleeing with myself. It was raining unexpectedly, and the downpour was heavy and continuous, and my jacket, which was quite thin, was not spared by the downpour. The city was dotted with smeary lights, reflections spanning wet pavement, like twisted promises. I did not have an umbrella, I did not have a plan, nor did I have a particular place that I needed to be or feel like I wouldn’t rather be anywhere except at my own apartment and there an awful quiet would be too close to my chest. I ran into the first opening place that I could see. It was a bar which was dark and virtually deserted, the sort of place that smelled of old timbers and forgotten things. There was soft music in the background that was slow and aching, as though it was fully aware of my mood. I tossed off the rainy hair, and stood on the threshold undecided, self-conscious, uncertain. That was when I saw him. He sat all alone at the other end of the bar, bent down a little, his shoulders, and his elbows on the counter, as though the burden of the world had at last been relieved, and had taken its last rest. There was a half-full glass before him that had not been touched. He was not browsing on his cell phone or glancing at the television in the airplane. He was looking into nothing, eyes black and fanciful and totally ignorant of how the room appeared to curve around him. I told myself not to stare. But there was something about him which called me quietly, insistent. Not beauty, in any strict sense, whereas though he was admittedly handsome. It was the stillness. The melancholy he never attempted to conceal. His appearance shed the light of a man who had fallen in love with something and lost it without any idea of how to get it back. I sat on two stools near him, close enough to make it seem I was not in his presence, yet distant enough to be aware of his presence as though a low current in the air. The bartender took my order. I asked for something strong. Then, there was a period of silence and all you could hear was the rain beating the windows and the light clicking of glasses. I vowed to myself that was the end. The fact that we would not be acquainted even in the same room the whole hour and then vanish back into our respective lives. Then he spoke. “Bad night?” His voice was low, rich, and showed a touch of fatigue that made my heart ache. I wheeled around to his side, startled, not by him speaking, but by his selection of me. I suppose that is relative to your definition of bad, I said. He looked at my wet jacket, my wet hair. It was neither exactly a smile nor a corner of his mouth. “Running from something?” I smiled to myself, and there was no humor in it. “Isn’t everyone?” This time, it gave me a real smile, slow, reluctant, devastating. It changed his face in a manner that was unjustified as he should not be given the right to do so to strangers. “Fair point,” he said. We got into conversation without difficulty, too easily. We didn’t exchange names. We did not ask the common questions. Rather, we talked in snatches, of the city, of music, and of the fact that on some evenings the atmosphere was even more oppressive than on others, without apparently any noticeable cause. He listened when I spoke. Really listened. His eyes never went up and never made me feel I was talking too much, saying the wrong thing. He did not talk a great deal, and when he did, he was very selective, which made him seem to be apprehensive of telling too much. “What do you do?” I asked eventually. He hesitated. Just a second too long. It is something that sounds good on paper and nothing in real life. I nodded. “I know that feeling.” He observed me at that, as though he were remembering my face. You do not look like a person who settles. I do not resemble a lot of things, I said to myself. There was a change between us, at that moment. The air grew thicker, heavier. I was keenly conscious at this moment of the proximity of his body to mine, of the warmth which emanated there, and of the feeling of his arm resting on mine as he moved. The snowy drizzle increased, and the thunder was heard at a distance. Will you mind my asking you something? He said. I met his gaze. “You already have.” A faint smile passed over his lips. “Why are you really here?” The truth that had come into my throat was crude and naked. Because I was lonely. I was sick and tired of being strong. Due to the fact I wanted to be once, just once, looked at without any explanation. Instead, I needed a night with no expectations of me. His eyes softened. “Then we want the same thing.” We didn’t plan what happened next. One moment we were talking, the next we were standing outside under the awning, rain pouring just beyond our reach. The city felt far away, like it had receded to give us privacy. “You should go,” he said, though his voice contradicted the words. “So should you,” I replied. Neither of us moved. The tension between us was unbearable now, sharp, electric, alive. He reached out slowly, as if giving me time to stop him, and brushed a wet strand of hair away from my face. His fingers lingered at my temple, sending a shiver straight through me. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. I didn’t. When he kissed me, it wasn’t gentle. It was careful but desperate, restrained but hungry, like he had been holding something back for far too long. I melted into him, my hands clutching his coat, my heart racing as if it recognized him before my mind could. The world narrowed to the feel of his lips, the sound of my breath mingling with his, the undeniable truth unfolding between us. We broke apart eventually, foreheads touching, breathing hard. “This is dangerous,” I whispered. “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t think I care.” Neither did I. We spent the night walking through rain-slicked streets, talking until the sky began to lighten. Still no names. Still no promises. Just two souls colliding in the dark. At dawn, we stopped outside my building. “This is where I get off,” I said. He nodded, eyes searching my face. “I wish I could ask you to stay.” I swallowed. “I wish you would.” But he didn’t. Instead, he pressed a final kiss to my lips, slow, lingering, unforgettable. “Goodbye,” he said. “Goodbye,” I echoed. I watched him walk away, unaware that I would see him again. Unaware that the stranger who kissed me in the rain was about to change my life forever.