(Note: This is a two chapter story with both chapters here. I hope you enjoy this adventure across the thin line of reality and fantasy.)
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I hadn't been to New York City in over twenty years, and in fact, rarely leave my cabin in Maine for any cities. I shop at a local food co-op in our small town, pick up mail a the post office, sometimes get a bowl of soup or a cup of coffee and exchange greetings with friends and neighbors then head home, happy to drive down the long dirt road through the woods and walk the path up to my quiet life.
I had just completed a book of poetry and my brother told me about a group he belongs to at the library that once a month has a guest speaker. Each member arranges an evening and it was his turn. He urged me to come to New York and give a reading. At first I wanted to say no I didn't want to deal with all the hustle and bustle of New York, but didn't respond—thinking about my garden and other reasons I shouldn't go, but then remembered a philosophy of mine to say "yes" when ever possible, unless there is a moral conflict or it's impossible.
He said, more insistently, "Come to New York and give the reading, it will be good for you." Finally, the desire to read my new poems and get away from my solitary life for awhile came over me and I said I would come. When I hung up the phone, I couldn't believe what I had agreed to do.
So, the sudden opportunity to visit my brother in New York and give a poetry reading brought me this chance to taste a piece of life I had never experienced before or since. Whether it was random or haphazard circumstance, I can't say—that's part of the mystery—but coming to New York and meeting Hannah that afternoon in the cafe around the corner from my brother's apartment took me into a realm of reality, I am still trying to understand.
I arrived in New York on a Thursday evening and took the train from the airport, then a subway and a bus to Riverside Drive where my brother lives. I was completely dazzled and overwhelmed by he visual sensations of lights and sounds, of people rushing, advertisements, horns and sirens, department stores filled with shiny merchandise, tall buildings and theaters. In contrast to my little town in Maine, I saw people from so many other cultures, so many shapes, sizes and colors—rushing, carrying packages, briefcases, talking on cell phones, listening to i-pods. I was swept along by the whirl of people on the go. There was so much to see, I didn't know where to look first and felt like I did when I was twelve and went to the circus.
The next day, while my brother had several appointments, I took the opportunity to explore the neighborhood and stopped at a little café called the Left Bank for a cup of coffee and a treat. My poetry reading wouldn't be until eight that evening, so I had the whole afternoon to myself. I had my journal where I write my thoughts and feelings everyday. The café was busy with people coming in quickly, getting a coffee to go and hurrying out. Most of the tables were empty. My table was by the window so I could glance outside at people passing. While I was writing, a young woman with long dark curly hair walked in. She had a canvas bag over one shoulder. She put her bag down on a table next to mine and went to the counter to p-lace an order. Standing there, she glanced at the pasteries, looked back at her table and at me. I had stopped writing—my pen paused on the page. Our eyes met briefly but I quickly looked away. I guessed she was in her early thirties and wore a long full wrap-around skirt with a colorful Indian print. It came just below her knees. She wore clogs and a soft textured white peasant-like blouse that revealed her shoulders. She had a small lavender scarf tied lightly at her neck. When she came to her table carrying her coffee, our eyes met again, briefly. I noticed her dark lively eyes, olive skin and wild flowing hair and thought she looked like a gypsy with her large silver dangling earrings.
She took a book out of her canvas bag and placed it on the table. She then put the bag on the floor next to her, sat down, crossed her legs and looked around the room, glancing quickly in my direction. Our eyes met then she looked away. She took a sip of her coffee and opened her book.
I remember writing in my journal how it felt with this exotic young lady sitting at the table next to me. I enjoy looking at people but rarely am I so captivated by a person as I was with her. Every few minutes, I stopped writing and glanced over at her, watching as she read, her fingers holding her coffee mug but not drinking.
I continued writing, struggling to concentrate on what I was describing and not look at her, but there was something about her presence, her contained energy that caused me to glance over at her. She was not pretty in the classic way—she had a narrow, pointed nose, a small mouth but full sensual lips, an angular shaped face, high cheek bones, but I could feel her lively spirit and I was drawn to her in a way I can not explain. I felt there was something mysterious and hidden about her that made her beautiful and drew me to her, like a moth to a light.
I am an extremely shy quiet person and it is not in my nature to strike up a conversation with someone I don't know—especially a young woman who must be a least thirty years younger than me. But there I was sitting at my table wanting to burst out of my reserved personality and invite myself to sit with her.
She was reading her book with deep concentration, but every time she turned the page, she would look up to glance around the room and our eyes would meet, then she would return to her book and I would return to my writing. In my journal I was describing this scene with me sitting at a table next to this exotic looking young woman, our eyes meeting. When I wrote, "Her dark hair, falling past her shoulder is lovely next to her olive complexion, but it's her large dark eyes that draw me to her. "I have to meet her. I have to meet her." It was the urgency of that last sentence that startled me. I often see a woman that I think looks attractive, but this was different. Why did I write, "I have to meet her?"
I put my pen down, reading over what I had written when I heard her voice. I turned and looked at her. Again our eyes met, and she asked, "What are you writing?"
At first I wasn't sure how to answer and so I repeated her question, "Oh, ah. What am I writing?" I glanced down at my journal then back at her and somehow found the nerve to say, "I'm writing about you."
"You are?" she asked, her eyes widened in surprise. "Why?"
"I don't know," I answered, looking at her eyes, noticing the slight smile on her lips.
Neither of us spoke, but, in that silence, there was no awkwardness—just curiosity. I took a deep breath and somehow found the boldness to say, "I think you are very beautiful. I wanted to describe you in words."
"Thank you," she responded and smiled. "I don't think I'm beautiful, so thank you."
Again, there was a silence, but we kept our eyes on each other. She picked up her coffee mug, brought it to her lips, but still she looked at me over the edge of her cup. I did the same thing, took a sip of my coffee, quickly closed my journal,keeping the pen in the book as a marker and looked back at her.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
"David Mamet," she answered, closing her book. "Do you know his writing?"
"Yes," I answered. "I've read a few of his plays. I like his language and how he writes dialogue."
"Me, too," she responded. "I love how crisp his dialogue is. It's like poetry—so spare."
"Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play," I said, surprising myself with that bold, spontaneous idea, somehow my usual shyness evaporating.
"Okay," she said and smiled. "Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play."
"Yes, let's," I responded, already entering the stylized manner of his dialogue.
"Yes, let's," Hannah said, picking up our game.
"Hello," I said, looking at her from my table.
"Hello," she said.
"You look sad," I said.
"I am sad," she said.
"Sad—too bad," I said. "Sadness is not what I want for today."
"I know," she said. "I know you don't want sadness for today."
"You do," I said.
"Yes, I do."
"What do you think I want for today?" I asked.
"You want me to invite you to sit with me but you are too shy to ask."
"You're right, I do."
She smiled and gestured to the empty seat across from her.
I was stunned by her invitation but smiled back, enjoying her dark eyes looking at me and the slight, playful smile on her lips. I picked up my journal and coffee and sat down at her table, our eyes meeting again.
"I'm Thom--Thom with an "h."
"Hello, Thom with an h."
"I'm Hannah with an h."
Hello Hannah with an h. I know your name has an h otherwise it would be Annah."
"You're right. And if it was a B I'd be Banana."
We both laughed.
"Are we being silly?" she asked.
"Yes, very silly," I said. "But thank you for reading my mind."
"This is a new way of meeting someone," she said.
I took a sip of my coffee and nodded, "Yes, I guess it is—especially for me. I never do things like this."
