Page 10 of The Moment I Met You
‘A little bit, to be honest. Every time I say Anna is dead, it becomes a bit more real – another step away from her. And every time I see that look of horror on someone’s face, it makes me feel worse. I started working from home, to avoid my colleagues. And usually, if I’m asked about it when I’m away, I lie. I just say she’s at home with the kids, or on a business trip, or some other pretty fiction. It seems … easier.’
‘I can imagine it would,’ I say, still holding his hand in mine. ‘You must miss her so much. You must feel so lonely.’
He nods, avoiding my eyes, and stares instead at our entwined fingers.
‘Sometimes I do,’ he says, tugging his hand gently away from mine. ‘No, that’s a lie actually. I feel lonely all the time. This is probably the longest conversation I’ve had in a year, and you holding my hand was the first time anyone has done that for even longer … I miss that, you know? The contact. I mean, obviously, I miss all kinds of things – but it’s surprised me, how much you take that casual stuff for granted. Hugs, hand-holding, waking up next to her, her hair tickling my nose when I held her, kissing each other goodbye in the morning and assuming we’d be able to do that every day, and … and I have no idea why I’m telling you all of this.’
I smile. I know exactly what he means – we are strangers.
‘Maybe it’s the church,’ I say. ‘Maybe we’re close enough to feel like we’re in a confessional? I mean, we’re complete strangers. We only really met a few moments ago, and here we are sharing our secrets like old friends.’
He nods, and we are silent for a moment. I have the strangest feeling that we are caught out of time, in our own bubble, like the sounds of the music and the laughter of the dancing Australians and the aromas of freshly cooked food exist in a parallel universe. That we are here, but not here.
‘Who did you light the candle for?’ he asks. ‘In the church?’
He has clearly reached the limit of his conversational boundaries, and I am caught slightly unawares by the question.
‘Oh! You saw that? My father … he died when I was young. Heart disease. I don’t remember too much about him, to be honest – I was only seven. But whenever I do think about him, I feel warm and safe, you know? Like I might not remember specifics, but I remember how he made mefeel. Ancient history. My mum remarried about ten years ago, to a really nice man called Ian, and I have a half-sister, Olivia. She’s eight, and what people kindly refer to as “spirited”. In other words, a bit of a nightmare.’
‘You sound very proud of that.’
‘I suppose I am – I think it’s good for a girl to be spirited, don’t you? Women need that. They need to shout and be awkward and not do as they’re told and not want to please all the time. I wish I had more of that myself. Have you seen that bird?’
I whisper the last few words, gesturing behind him with one finger. He looks confused, but turns his head and sees it: a hummingbird, hovering within a mass of purple and orange flowers that are growing on vines along the wall. Its feathers are a startling shade of iridescence, a riot of emerald green and flecks of gold, its long beak wavering as it hovers. It looks like something from a fantasy story.
He reaches quietly for his phone and takes a few shots. The bird pauses, perfectly still, its miniscule head cocked to one side as though listening to something. Then in a bright flap of wings it leaves us, disappearing off into the gathering dusk. I notice a few other birds take to the sky at the same time; a small flurry of squawks, chirps and feathers, disturbed by some sound our human ears can’t discern.
‘They must be off to some crazy bird party. Did you get a picture?’ I ask, leaning across the table to look at the screen.
‘Oh, you did! That’s so nice. Well done.’
I look up, realising that I have a very silly grin on my face.
‘I look like a ten-year-old, don’t I?’ I ask, laughing. ‘I’ve been told that’s what happens when I’m excited about something.’
‘You do a bit,’ he answers, sounding amused. ‘But it’s good to have a sense of childlike wonder. It’s even making me smile, which as you can imagine is a small miracle for Mr Grumpy.’
‘You’re not grumpy,’ I reply dismissively. ‘You’re just … well, you’re Swedish, aren’t you? You can’t help it.’
He laughs out loud and puts his phone back down on the table top. We are both smiling, and it is a nice moment. It feels like neither of us needs to talk. Like if we just try hard enough, we could even communicate telepathically.
It is only a moment, though. A moment that is shattered by the weirdest sensation – like the ground suddenly rolling to the side, chair legs twisting beneath me enough to make me slap my hands down on the table to steady myself. There’s a low rumbling sound, the shaking and clinking of glassware and plates being pushed around by invisible diners.
The table vibrates, his phone bunny-hopping across the gingham cloth, the wine bottle falling onto its side and rolling off the edge.
He reaches out, grabs my hands, our eyes meeting in primal panic as the world seems to shimmer around us, alien and terrifying. I grip his fingers way too hard, as the wine glasses join the bottle on the ground.
As quickly as it starts, it stops again. I blink, hard and fast, still frozen in place. There is a stunned silence, the ominous rumbling gone, the tables still, the crowds too shocked to speak. I know I am.
Within seconds, though, the communal tension is released with a loud whoosh of laughter that circulates around the plaza. Like all at once, we breathe out together. The music restarts, and the night goes on as though the temporary glitch never even happened.
‘What was that?’ I say, trying not to sound as freaked out as I am.
‘A tremor,’ he replies, calmly. ‘They’re common enough in Mexico. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Are you actually as relaxed as you seem about it, or are you faking it to reassure me?’
‘Both. It’s a good job I have you to impress, or I’d be hiding under the table and crying like a schoolgirl.’
