Don't call my name

It was in that instant that I knew. This was to be the end. There would be no more late night meetings at the coffee shop, or afternoon visits to the art gallery. There was to be no more mornings spent lying in bed discussing politics, which I knew quite a bit about, but nowhere near as much as him. This was to be the end. But we would not go out with a bang. No, we were not the type. I preferred to fade into the background.

It would make little sense for me to tell you about the end without first telling you about the beginning. It was at a small coffee shop downtown. His hands were the first thing I noticed. I remember thinking they were the most beautiful hands. On mere instinct rather than thought I sat at the table behind his. I wanted to watch those hands as they jotted down notes on a pad of yellow paper. What was he writing?

“Excuse me miss?”

I was startled from my daydream by a young waiter.

“Would you like to order now?”

“Just a coffee, please. Black,” I said.

The waiter turned and left. I looked back at the table where the stranger with the beautiful hands had been. No one. Where had he gone? I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see the waiter with my coffee. It was the man. He offered me his hand; a perfect hand.

“Hi, I’m Mark.”

I sat in awe for a moment, then forced myself to reply.

“I’m Anna.”

Our eyes met and he held my gaze. It was then that I knew that he knew. There was no decision left for either of us to make. It had been decided before I had known his name. It had been decided before he’d introduced himself to me. He’d known, and I’d known, from the moment I saw his hands; we would spend many days together. I would be holding those perfect hands.

He sat down as the waiter brought me my coffee. He looked at it, seemingly sizing me up by my choice of coffee. Black coffee, plain girl. But he’d be wrong to assume that, which he would later find out.

We sat there talking for hours, unaware of anything around us. We forgot about the family with the crying baby sitting by the window, or the music playing on the radio. We talked about everything. His favorite color was red. He’d lived in Rome for a year. He had an older brother, Daniel. He had a very distinct way of speaking. He made you feel like you were the first person he’d ever told anything to. I felt an instant bond with this stranger, who, after many hours of talking, was no longer much of a stranger.

It was then that I remembered his note pad. I asked about it casually, hoping I wouldn’t come off as nosy. He didn’t seem to mind the question. He opened his bag and pulled out the yellow pad, passed it across the table to me. I flipped through the pad and noticed each page contained notes on a person he’d met. Instinctively I flipped to the last page with writing on it, and there I was. There was no name yet, but he’d drawn a quick sketch of me, which would become the first of many. I read the notes about me, somewhat embarrassed. He’d written about my eyes; they were like emeralds. He’d wanted to get to know those eyes. I looked up from the pad and there he was, his eyes staring back into mine.

In the months to come I would grow to hate those eyes. They were sharp like razors, and would tear into me without warning. There was no escape from those eyes. I could never understand how a man with such beautiful hands could have eyes like those. They were hawk-like, able to find prey from miles away. It was one of the only faults I found in him; his willingness to pick people apart. Friends, relatives, strangers; no one was safe from his eyes. But for tonight his eyes remained calm; two perfect blue pools waiting for a ripple.

It was well past midnight when we left the coffee shop. There was a moment of awkward silence as he realized I wasn’t inviting him back to my apartment. For a moment I was afraid he’d invite me to his place for more coffee, a line I’d heard one too many times, but he decided against it. Perhaps he read the look on my face. Instead, he offered to walk me home. We strolled down the deserted street discussing Shakespeare. His favorite play being MacBeth, mine Hamlet.

When at last we reached my apartment he turned to me, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “I bid thee goodnight, my dear Ophelia.”

I smiled at his Hamlet reference. And before I could so much as utter a goodbye he had disappeared around the corner.

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I had no way of contacting Mark. I’d spent an entire evening with the man, I knew his favorite restaurant, how he liked his coffee, and what his Halloween costume had been when he was eight. And yet, I had no way to get in touch with him. I’d never thought to get a phone number in between discussions on George W. Bush and T. S. Elliot. There was a possibility I would never see the man with the beautiful hands again.

It was out of habit rather than desire for coffee that I returned to the downtown coffee shop that night. There he was, sitting at the same table with the same yellow note pad. I stared at his every movement. It struck me that every one of his actions flowed smoothly into the next.

I wanted him to notice me the same way I had noticed him. I took a seat by the window. After a few moments I could feel the weight of his stare, but I did not turn around. When he finally came over to sit with me I acted surprised to see him.
He took my look of surprise as bewilderment. He thought I didn’t recognize him. It was his turn to look surprised.

“Uh, hi. I’m Mark. We met last night.”

“I remember. I’m Anna.”

My words put him at ease. I remembered him. It was smooth sailing from here.
He ordered us some coffee. He remembered I took mine black. He shot me a look across the table that said, “Are you impressed yet?”

I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He was absolutely charming. He had a voice fit for the radio. I could have listened to that voice all night. But that would not be the case. After only an hour or so Mark stood up.

“I’ve got to get going. Can I have your number? I’d like to call you sometime.”

I tried to hide my disappointment that he was leaving so soon; I barely knew this man. I wrote my number on his pad of yellow paper, not sure when the next time I would see him would be.

“It was nice seeing you again. Goodnight,” he said, and he disappeared out the café’s door.

I suddenly felt alone. I wanted Mark to come back. I wanted to talk politics and art. How could I miss him so much? I’d only just met him. But he was like no one I’d ever known. He was brilliant, charming. He knew what to say and when to say it. He was well informed on a large variety of subjects. I’d never met anyone who could discuss Van Gogh one moment and Mozart the next.

He disappeared from my life as quietly as he had appeared. The first week I spent near the phone, hoping beyond hope he’d call. I made excuses not to leave the house so I wouldn’t miss the phone ringing. But, he didn’t call. He didn’t call the next week either, or the one after that. After a while it got easier. I trusted the answering machine to take any calls I might miss. I went to a new café. I met a young couple visiting from Paris. We talked about poets, and it was then that I remembered Mark and felt a small pang of sadness. More than three weeks and no phone call.

It was about a week after meeting the French couple that I found myself on the sofa in my living room writing little haiku poems for amusement. I was pulled away from my prose at the sound of the telephone. I guess now it seems painfully obvious that it would be Mark calling. Of course it would be. I answered the phone half expecting it to be my mother inviting me to yet another family dinner, half hoping it would be a wrong number. He caught me off guard.

“Anna?”

“Yes?”

“Hey, it’s Mark.”

He sounded so sure of himself. There was no hesitation in his voice. I, on the other hand, was unable to keep my cool.

“Oh, uh, hey. Yeah, it’s Anna.”

“How are you?”

“Good, thanks.”

Yeah, good until you disappeared from my life without warning or explanation.

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“Good also.”

I wanted to tell him how much I’d missed him. How badly I had wanted to see him. How hard that first week had been. I wanted to tell him how much I needed him. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It scared me how much I cared for this man whom I’d met less than a handful of times.

“Excellent. I was calling in hopes you might want to join me for a coffee tonight. Our café, around 8?”

He’d said “our café.”

“I guess I can fit you in,” I said coolly.

“See you tonight, Opehlia.”

My heart skipped a beat when he said that last part. Ophelia. He remembered.

I went to the café early. I picked a table off to the side and sat down. It had been over a month since I’d last seen Mark. At first I’d been sad, then lonely, but now, now I was angry. Who did he think he was leaving with no goodbye? No warning. And just when I was getting back on track he bursts back into my life. How dare he? How dare he disappear and just as quickly reappear a month later?
A bell jingled signaling that someone was opening the door. I looked up and there he was, scanning the room. I didn’t move. He could find the table on his own. Surely someone who could disappear without a trace could find a table without any help. He spotted me.

“Anna, how are you?”

“Fine.”

My words cut the air like a razor.

“Yourself?” I added.

“I’m great.”

The waiter came and we ordered. I got a cappuccino. See Mark? You leave for a month and people change.

If he noticed my change in beverage it didn’t show. He started fiddling with the sugar packets on the table. I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Where have you been for the past month?”

He stared off out of the window and I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me or not. I’d lost my nerve and couldn’t bring myself to repeat the question, so we sat in silence.
The waiter came back with our orders. When he left Mark finally spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry for leaving without notice? Sorry for forgetting about you? Why are you sorry Mark? Please, explain that to me.

“Oh.”

“I went to visit my brother,” he explained. “He was sick. It was very sudden. I’m so sorry. You probably thought I’d forgotten about you. But really, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

That was exactly what I’d wanted to hear. My anger melted away. No matter that he hadn’t bothered to call. No matter that I’d been broken-hearted all month. I wanted so badly to forgive him. I wanted so badly for this to work out.
He took my hand in his.

“Tell me something about yourself that no one else knows.”

We sat in silence once again, and I thought. What could I tell him?

“I’m terribly afraid of water,” I explained. “When I was little I almost drowned and I’ve never gone in the water since.”

I’d gone to the beach alone that day. I was alone a lot as a child. The current pulled me out and a lifeguard had to come save me. I’d never told anyone about this. Not even my parents. They’d never understood why I’d suddenly stopped swimming.

“Your turn,” I said.

“I was pretty lonely as a child. I had an imaginary friend called Simon. When things at home would get rough I’d tell my mom I was going over to Simon’s house. In reality I’d go to the park by my house and sleep there.”

I don’t know how long we sat there just holding hands. Neither of us spoke, but we didn’t have to.

It was getting late and the café was beginning to empty out. The only other people still there were two young couples sitting by the window.

Mark squeezed my hand.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

I woke up before he did the next morning. I watched him sleep. He looked so peaceful.

While he slept I searched the bookshelf in the corner of his room. I pulled out a book on Leonardo Da Vinci and started to read it in bed.

When he woke up he smiled. His smiles had a way of lighting up his whole face. He sat up and looked at the book in my hands.

“I hope you don’t mind. I found it on the bookshelf.”

“It’s a good book.”

We stayed in bed all morning discussing politics. I thought I knew quite a bit from following the news closely, but I knew nowhere near as much as he did. We talked about the upcoming election. Who we thought should win. More importantly, who we thought would win.

For lunch we got dressed and he took me to a little Italian restaurant downtown. I’d never seen it before.

He ordered our meal in perfect Italian. I remembered he had spent a year in Rome. He told me stories about Italy while we waited for our food to arrive.

After a while my eyes began to wander around the room. The walls were painted vibrant colors and they had beautiful painting hung all over the place. I watched as two men in business suits laughed at a joke. I looked on as a man and his wife ate their lunch. All of a sudden someone grabbed my wrist. It was Mark.

“You’re hurting me, Mark.”

“You’re not paying attention to me.”

“I’m sorry, I was looking around. I’ve never been here before.”

“Trying to pick up another guy right under my nose?”

His voice was harsh. It didn’t sound like him. I was scared. His hand, that beautiful hand, was crushing my wrist.

“Please let go, you’re hurting me,” I repeated.

“Fine,” he let go of my arm. “You ungrateful bitch.”

His words stung, like a slap in the face. They hung in the air as I tried to collect my thoughts. I got up to leave.

“No Anna. Please don’t leave. I’m so sorry. I, I didn’t mean to. I just snapped. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

The waiter arrived just then with our lunch, and I sat down.

“Thank you,” Mark said to me.

He smiled, but his eyes told a different story. There was a storm brewing. I should have left. I should have walked out that door when I had the chance. But instead I sat there and ate Italian food that I couldn’t pronounce the name of.