Contact (1)

I’ve seen this guy before. From the corner of my eye. When I tried to look at him, he was gone. Every time. Like a ghost stalking my blind spot. Today is different. He stands right in front of me, with a look that says, “It’s time.”

It’s the same… man? It must have been the reddish hood that caught my eye. Why I noticed him in the first place. Or was it his face? Those huge dark-green eyes? His androgynous features? His tall, slender body doesn’t move at all, only his brown coat flaps in the mild breeze.

I look around me, but there’s nobody else. The bus stop is deserted, and I remember there’s somewhere I’ve got to be. I look at the autumn leaves on the pavement, as if they’d just fallen. But they’re wet and sticky.

“It’s getting colder, isn’t it,” he says. I look up as like I’m not sure he’s talking to me. He sounds hesitant, but sure of himself. A heavy baritone. I don’t feel like small talk, but I don’t want to be rude either.

“Summer’s been long enough, I guess.” Hoping my reply was trite enough, I look up to the timetable. 20 minutes? I must’ve just missed a bus.

He sits down on the bench and looks at me, long and questioning. I’m starting to feel uneasy and look away.

“You don’t remember me?” he asks. I look back at him, reluctantly, shaking my head.

“I’d remember those eyes,” I say, feeling how weird this must sound. I look at the timetable again, wishing the minutes to count down faster.

He laughs. “Maybe, but we’ve met before. A long time ago.”

I look at him again. “Sorry, I really don’t remember. So, it was you following me around?”

“Yes.” It sounds almost apologetic. “When you helped me all those years ago, I said we’d meet again.”

“I helped you?” There’s a memory in my mind, somewhere. I feel it coming back, like a slow fade-in. A man by the roadside, fixing the tire of his car. A lonely oak tree alley. Rain and wind. I’m not sure it’s the right memory, but if feels right.

“I totalled the car a week later,” he says, as if he knows what I’m remembering.

“Hope it wasn’t my fault.”

He smiles. “No, not at all. But you said something back then… It had to do with why I was there in the first place, and why I’m here now. You remember that?”

Of course, I do. “This is the road where all kinds of weird stuff happen to me.” It’s all coming back, at once. I feel nauseated. This man. Even on that road some 20 years earlier, he seemed… out of place. When he talked, his body hardly moved. Though he was all wet from the rain, he kept screwing on the tire like it didn’t matter, slow and deliberate. Mechanical. A stranger without body language.

Now, too, his expression seems mute. I remember I’d thought about the past encounter for a long time. Walking on that road didn’t feel menacing anymore. Then I forgot. All of it. My life was easier this way.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about all this?” he asks.

“No, I haven’t. Why would I?”

He looks at me, again, long and questioning. “Well, it’s time to remember, and it’s time to talk. Even if nobody will listen. But the more you remember, the more people will listen.”

“I’ve never asked you who you were,” I say.

He laughs. “No, you haven’t. Ever wondered why?”

I don’t really want to know who you are; I think to myself. I don’t say it though.

“Somehow you know it doesn’t matter,” he says. And for the first time, I see him blink. Just once, and slowly. Anxiously, I look at the timetable again. Too many minutes left. We’re still alone at the bus stop.

He gets up and turns to gaze at the sky. It’s blue. Not a cloud up there. The sunlight makes his face look even paler, and the colour of his eyes seem almost blue.

“Soon, things will change,” he says, as if talking to the sky, “and it won’t be easy. You will change. Everybody will. Nobody will have a choice. It’s important that you remember. We’ll meet again.”

He takes his eyes off the sky and looks on the street. I follow his eyes and see the bus coming. When I turn around, the man smiles at me and nods. Then he leaves. I get on the bus, not looking back. I need to sit down. I can’t think, and I don’t feel like feeling anything either.

And then, I begin to remember.

(To be continued…)