The Memory Maker (short story)
By Luke Labern
The rainfall was too heavy.
Had he been in any other mood, it could have been the sort of weather that soaked a person through with frustration, along with the complete and utter saturation of the clothes which were at least twice as heavy now. But he was in that unique mood that all of us wish we could command at will, but by necessity cannot. We spend so much time in our lives re-living our memories: analysing them, forensically dissecting them, wondering what we could have done differently – what went right, wondering how on earth we did this, or that – and generally viewing that picture reel in our minds. The cinema of our lives to date. But this was one of those moments – one of the really important moments.
The memory-making moments.
These would be the few seconds and minutes that change the course of a life. These would be the brief moments upon which hours upon hours of reflection would be spent. These were, strictly speaking, the materials from which memories worked on. If most of the time is spent in the cinema – as either a highly critical or adoring film aficionado – then this was the Lights, Camera, Action moment – this was the film in production.
But it was not a film: it was life. There would be no repeats. There would be no scripts. There would be no casting or audition – these would be the moments that, far from fading into obscurity, would be the focus of so many hours of interest and looking-back. The moments that would allow him to smile to himself in the middle of public, or on a train, or alone, in his room, seemingly randomly, because no one else was able to view his stream of consciousness. But within, he would be replaying these moments over and over, quite literally in a loop. Depending on his actions and reactions in these few moments, he would have the chance to flash genuine smiles for a long time to come.
Or have reason to recoil with regret and chastise himself.
The preparation wasn’t really preparation at all. Deep breaths, and the like. There is no substitute and no practise for those moments where adrenaline forces your legs to wobble for no other reason than that you really, truly care about the outcome of whatever is approaching. Or whatever it is that you are approaching. Not even past, similar moment really act as practise. Success or failure in a past event has no bearing on what happens next. If anything, this only adds pressure.
These thoughts – and many others – were racing through his head as he slowly approached his destination, allowing the heat and intensity of his thoughts to cool with the unrelenting pitter-patter of the rain on his skin. He could have sworn there was a little steam evaporating from him – but this was just one more thought in a series that seemed never-ending, none of them appropriate to what was about to happen.
Sloshing through the street, it almost looked as if it was night-time when really it was only an early summer evening. The clouds were thick and pregnant with perspiration, and so large that the sunlight was thoroughly blocked out. There was a grey-blue appearance to the world: only the flooded pavements with streams of water cascading over and off them along with those massive, grey clouds gave any colour at all. The rain was falling so thickly, so thoroughly and so quickly that it was difficult to see anything at all. Occasionally he could see human-like forms around him: some were attempting to run to the nearest cover whilst others had resigned themselves to the fact they were completely soaked and entered that unique frame of mind where one simply acknowledges their place in the universe: right there, to be soaked. What could have become frustrating (those running around futilely were obviously highly frustrated) became enlightening. Almost Buddhist like – a state of nirvana.
The rain was inescapable: why try to escape it? Why fight against nature? Especially against water. That is not a battle that can be won. We can only ever swim through water – we can never defeat it.
This was exactly the frame of mind that he was in. Lionel (Leo for short) would often find himself in that other category – those people whose mood would be adversely affected because they found themselves carrying around wet slabs for clothing rather than the outfit they had earlier chosen for themselves. But today was different. He was thoroughly in-tune with the world, and felt completely liberated by the rainfall. He would stare up into the sky and find the sight enchanting: a million raindrops falling down all around him, he looking up; they were coming to him. Far from them being unwelcome visitors, they added a sense of gravitas to the occasion. Far from being an experience he wanted to forget, they were all adding to the sensation that this was to be an unforgettable few moments.
The setting was perfect. His mind-set was perfect. He was healthy, aware and at the right intersection between nervous and excited. He was able to speak – just about – and though not relaxed, was ready.
He slipped his phone out of his pocket, trying (and failing) to shield it from the rain, and saw that he was right on time. At that moment, the screen flashed and a message read: ‘Where are you? x’
The reflection displayed dark brown, almost hazel eyes, with no eyelash out of place. Above these were two thin eyebrows with a distinctive shape, curving slightly upwards and then down again – yet again, not a hair out of place. In her left nostril was a small silver ring which was the only asymmetrical feature of an otherwise completely flawless face, adding a piece an element of character to her appearance which teetered on the brink of being overpoweringly flawless. It was almost as if she was unreal – but it was precisely because her beauty was completely devoid of all of the usual get-pretty-quick techniques that it was so stunning. Her lips were an almost magical pink of a delicate hue, her skin tone was quite literally unbelievable. Not quite pale, not quite tanned – just somewhere in the middle, where words couldn’t touch. Her hair was a thorough, deep brunette and, almost inevitably, seemed perfectly apportioned to her appearance and personality, running halfway down her back.
Her name was Georgia, but ‘grace’ might have been a better fit. Such elegance that many people couldn’t see it – because they couldn’t handle it. It was almost unfair that such a person should exist, so they focused on darker things, more troubling things. Immoral, dirty things. Her existence was almost unreal.
When she smiled, the world stopped.
When she had a serious or sombre expression, her lips parted exposing the edges of perfect teeth.
The world stopped.
Her eyebrows always stayed the same. In perfect unison, in their perfect shape. It was an endless argument: was she more beautiful when she was happy, or concerned? Elegance versus the sultry.
That was what her reflection showed – and it is what everyone with sight could see. Except her. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see perfection, she didn’t see symmetry and she certainly didn’t see ‘grace’, ‘elegance’ or ‘the sultry’.
She only saw the person that had grown from an inquisitive, unique child into an equally inquisitive young woman. In her nineteen years she had seen a lot of things – and was all the more interesting for it – but she didn’t see the beauty that others did.
Often, the girls that do see beauty in the mirror only see physical beauty – or rather those features which others lust after. But Georgia was truly beautiful: if such a thing can be believed, the thoughts, beliefs and dreams that people couldn’t see were almost more beautiful than her flawless exterior.
She turned away from the mirror, apparently finding a blemish (which wasn’t really there). She looked around her bedroom, at a John Lennon poster with the peace sign as a background, round an odd stuffed animal head stuck to one of the walls and at her black, puffy, fluffy cat who was sitting on her bed next to the book she was currently reading. She couldn’t see what she was looking for.
She heard a vibrating noise and realised it was at the bottom of her bag. She rummaged around inside, past a few books, a bottle of perfume and various other trinkets and finally pulled it out. It was flashing a unique colour, which meant that a particular person had contacted her. The message read:
‘The weather isn’t fun. Bring an umbrella… or wear a coat! x’
She looked out of her bedroom window and started to drift into her thoughts, as she often did. She was mesmerised by those same grey clouds that she would later be standing under, and began to think important thoughts.
That feeling of importance began to coarse through her veins and wash over her – the knowledge that memories were about to be made. That day. In just a little while. That version of her – the person she was right then, with those beliefs, those dreams, that appearance, that frame of mind – that was the identity that would be the memory maker. The girl that would be at the core of memories for a long time to come. She was extremely nervous. She began to shake, but a powerful, uncontrollable smile crept across her face.
Anyone who had cared to see her reflection in the mirror might just have seen the most beautiful, genuine smile in the world.
A smile beautiful not just because of the person smiling it – but a smile that seemed to transcend and engage the basic facts of life. That life was finite. That there was no afterlife. That this was it. That it was moments like these that meant everything. That there was nothing else: only those moments which are so profound that they become memories, and fuel us in our darkest days, driving us forward in the hope we get just one more. The smile that, whether it was to be fulfilled or not, signifies one thing.
Hope.
What makes memories memorable?
Often it’s that they’re completely unpredictable. That, literally, even if one runs through as many possible situations and outcomes in their head as they can, the real and unforgettable result never even occurred to them.
Other times it’s the rarity of the situation. Life mostly consists of waiting around waiting for something big to happen. And then it happens, and we react (rather than consciously act), and history is written. And then we return to waiting around. We have another memory. Another day has passed, and try as we might we can’t grab time and ask it to take us back. We move on constantly. Incessantly. Unceasingly – until we cease. There are no breaks. Sleep is as close as we get to a break – and that’s no break at all, because sleep isn’t promised. Ask any insomniac and they’ll tell you that ‘resting’ isn’t always restorative. We lay awake at night thinking of what could have been, what might have been, what should have been… and then there’s:
What could be.
Dreams coming true are the most powerful positive memories there are.
We spend so long dreaming – some of us seriously and aimlessly, some of us with serious intentions of fulfilling them, or dying trying – that when they happen it’s déjà vu. We’ve run over the end results so many times that, in opposition to unpredictable memories – we know exactly what has happened – we dreamt of its happening, but we are reduced to children as the world stuns us, kisses us on the forehead and leaves us something to remember until our dying day.
The birth of a child.
A friendship set in stone.
A reunion.
Unity.
The first kiss of two lovers.
‘I was completely intimidated, of course, and I couldn’t act. But my thoughts were racing, as was my pulse. She was talking to me about this and that, and I was probably answering vacantly (because the questions were the same so many times, I could recite the answers from memory) and yet I was just thinking about you. Not with any hopes of ever even speaking to you properly. Well, I hoped that I might, but I didn’t think I would.’
‘I remember.’
Not believing her, Leo continued: ‘I wanted to run away with you.’
‘I really do remember.’
All this was said virtually. But Leo was silenced. He left his computer screen on that night, that unforgettable night where the state of the world changed forever in a way it had done only once before, and looked in the mirror.
He didn’t see the same flawlessness that was revealed any time someone looked at Georgia. But he wasn’t looking at his appearance. He didn’t notice dark brown hair, blue eyes, or a beard. He was only checking to see if he was dreaming.
He wasn’t.
The smile on his face was all he needed to see to realise that this was really happening. The nuances of the expression revealed everything. No dream could match it. His smile read, and I quote:
The girl – the only girl – I’ve ever looked up to in awe – the only girl I’ve been intimidated by, been too scared to talk to, been unconfident to approach… Georgia – the girl I’ve dreamt of talking to, let alone what just happened… the girl I have, point blank, placed on a pedestal… feels the same way about me.
He scurried back to his computer screen and apologised for leaving the conversation (terrible internet etiquette), but was relieved to find out that she had gone out for a cigarette. Apparently she was so shocked by his revelation that she had to check if she was dreaming too.
A perfect moment shared in unison, and yet not in person. Miles away, but their thoughts completely in sync. A shining example of the electricity pulsing through their bodies – and the electricity pulsing through a complicated matrix of wires in telephone lines and through servers – merging to produce one thing: magic. Memories. Moments they would never forget.
But this was still all virtual.
They had to meet.
‘I’m here.’
Leo pressed send and placed his phone back into his coat pocket in the hope that it wouldn’t drown in all the rain. He looked up at the sky once more. He smiled a smile akin to the one he had when checking if he was dreaming, weeks ago.
Though he had been patient to wait for their meeting, quite aware that there was nothing certain about what was to happen, and painfully perceptive to the reality that it was quite possible that nothing could come from all this, the rime had finally arrived. The weeks of waiting were worth it – no matter what happened. He had woken up each day anticipating this exact moment, and, as odd as it may sound, he was so glad that he hadn’t died in the time between that night and this. He just had to live this day and see what would happen.
His excitement was starting to give way to more and more nervousness when he received another message:
‘I'm here too. I can’t see anything! Shout! x’
Leo’s pulse quickened in an instant. He couldn’t see any human forms around: only rain. A thick blanket of water falling from the sky. If anything, somehow the rain was falling even more heavily. It was the heaviest rain he had ever seen. Monsoon-like.
Aware that he had never spoken to her in person, alone, this was going to be the first thing he would say during this fateful event. He tried to think of the right thing to say; a witty line? Just her name? What intonation? What stress? What tone?
He was overthinking. And he knew it. So he simply called out:
‘Georgia?’
Nothing.
‘Geor—‘
He heard a muffled noise ahead. A response. It was her.
He started walking towards the noise. Underfoot, he was walking where three roads met, but it was particularly quiet and there was no traffic. They had the road to themselves. They had the space to unfold their lives, right here, right now.
The rain really was impossible to see through. They didn’t see each other until they bumped into one another.
‘Georgia,’ he said again, this time sure of what to say.
She was a few inches smaller than him, and looked up at him with a stunning expression. She had managed to combine the sultry and the elegant. She would have stopped him dead in his tracks had he not been expecting her to look this beautiful. If he hadn’t thought long and hard about what he wanted out of this moment.
They didn’t speak. They simply stared into each other’s eyes.
Hers brown. His blue.
The rain continued to pour down and they were both completely soaked. Almost naked; there were no facades. There was no one around. Just them. Their hair was completely at the mercy of the rain and there was a constant stream of rain down their faces. In the background there was the soothing, undulating sound of raindrops lashing down against the tarmac of the crossroads they were standing on. There were a number of trees lining the side of the road, adding an extra texture of sound as the rain hit the thick leaves of the trees before splashing down with the rest of the rain drops on the ground. It sounded almost like a quiet waterfall.
They lingered in a moment that was halfway between being lost for words and the want to smile. A surge of warmth was spreading within them, an indescribable emotion that can only be translated as: everything is going to be okay.
Whether that was true or not was unimportant. It was simply one thing.
Hope fulfilled.
Without hesitation – but perfectly calmly, smoothly, and sweetly – he gave her a look and she instantly understood. He put his arms around her shoulder and they shared an embrace which transcended words. It would be a moment they never forget.
He kissed her forehead.
She felt protected, and somehow loved, though they had never made physical contact before.
He felt as if a dream had come true.
He didn’t want the moment to end. Which is often the way memorable moments go. Everything was unspoken. It was the right thing to do.
‘It’s nice to meet you. Properly.’
‘Likewise,’ she said, smiling an impossibly beautiful smile. His heart ran cold, then warm, then cold. Then warm.
‘You didn’t bring an umbrella.’
‘I did bring a coat, though.’
They laughed at the absurdity of the situation. And then, from the particular to the grand – as Leo had dreamt they might share in common, their love of the profound – the topic of conversation turned.
‘This is incredible,’ she said, looking up towards the sky. Leo smiled to himself as she unknowingly copied what he had done moments ago.
Who could have dreamt they would be so similar?
‘It’s beautiful,’ she continued.
Leo realised that this was the perfect opportunity to say what his mind was screaming out: ‘so are you.’ But he didn’t. He had to do something else. There was now a tension in the air – still unspoken. As comfortable as they both somehow felt – although there was still nervousness present -- it was clear that they were both in awe of the other – Leo knew what he had to do.
She looked down from the sky after noticing that the sunlight had pierced a slight hole through the largest cloud in the sky, lighting up the scene just slightly. They could see each other better. She looked at him and this time her face displayed an even more intense expression. It said one thing. But Leo had already acknowledged his role a few seconds ago, and was ready for it.
Lights. Camera. Action.
He gave her a look of unqualified intensity and no one in the world could have mistaken it. She acquiesced, and moved her body in the corresponding direction. Their eyes closed. Their lips met. He caught one last glance at her flawless face, her now glittering-eyes and her lips, with their distinctive pink hue -- and then he felt a perfectly weighted sensation on his own. Rain continued to fall, but anyone who would have cared to have looked would have seen them embrace in perfect harmony with complete grace and ease, as if they had done it a million times. He held her tightly – and yet softly – around her lower back and brought her closed to him; she made a similar movement towards his upper back, her fingers tensing and relaxing along in synchronicity to the rhythm of the moment.
And there, in that heavy rainfall, the rest of the world stopped existing. Two dreamers who had dreamt the opposite sides of the same dream had been given the opportunity not only to exist and to flourish as human beings – which an infinite number of would-be people never get the chance to do – but were able to share a moment that would live a life of its own.
The crescendo of a narrative which had been years in the making – over in an instant – resigned then to the past -- but one of many similar unforgettable moments in the history of the world. When all is said and done, there will only ever be memories. And when there are no humans left, there will be nothing left. Which makes such moments all the more profound.
The first kiss of two lovers.
A memory in the making.
Had he been in any other mood, it could have been the sort of weather that soaked a person through with frustration, along with the complete and utter saturation of the clothes which were at least twice as heavy now. But he was in that unique mood that all of us wish we could command at will, but by necessity cannot. We spend so much time in our lives re-living our memories: analysing them, forensically dissecting them, wondering what we could have done differently – what went right, wondering how on earth we did this, or that – and generally viewing that picture reel in our minds. The cinema of our lives to date. But this was one of those moments – one of the really important moments.
The memory-making moments.
These would be the few seconds and minutes that change the course of a life. These would be the brief moments upon which hours upon hours of reflection would be spent. These were, strictly speaking, the materials from which memories worked on. If most of the time is spent in the cinema – as either a highly critical or adoring film aficionado – then this was the Lights, Camera, Action moment – this was the film in production.
But it was not a film: it was life. There would be no repeats. There would be no scripts. There would be no casting or audition – these would be the moments that, far from fading into obscurity, would be the focus of so many hours of interest and looking-back. The moments that would allow him to smile to himself in the middle of public, or on a train, or alone, in his room, seemingly randomly, because no one else was able to view his stream of consciousness. But within, he would be replaying these moments over and over, quite literally in a loop. Depending on his actions and reactions in these few moments, he would have the chance to flash genuine smiles for a long time to come.
Or have reason to recoil with regret and chastise himself.
The preparation wasn’t really preparation at all. Deep breaths, and the like. There is no substitute and no practise for those moments where adrenaline forces your legs to wobble for no other reason than that you really, truly care about the outcome of whatever is approaching. Or whatever it is that you are approaching. Not even past, similar moment really act as practise. Success or failure in a past event has no bearing on what happens next. If anything, this only adds pressure.
These thoughts – and many others – were racing through his head as he slowly approached his destination, allowing the heat and intensity of his thoughts to cool with the unrelenting pitter-patter of the rain on his skin. He could have sworn there was a little steam evaporating from him – but this was just one more thought in a series that seemed never-ending, none of them appropriate to what was about to happen.
Sloshing through the street, it almost looked as if it was night-time when really it was only an early summer evening. The clouds were thick and pregnant with perspiration, and so large that the sunlight was thoroughly blocked out. There was a grey-blue appearance to the world: only the flooded pavements with streams of water cascading over and off them along with those massive, grey clouds gave any colour at all. The rain was falling so thickly, so thoroughly and so quickly that it was difficult to see anything at all. Occasionally he could see human-like forms around him: some were attempting to run to the nearest cover whilst others had resigned themselves to the fact they were completely soaked and entered that unique frame of mind where one simply acknowledges their place in the universe: right there, to be soaked. What could have become frustrating (those running around futilely were obviously highly frustrated) became enlightening. Almost Buddhist like – a state of nirvana.
The rain was inescapable: why try to escape it? Why fight against nature? Especially against water. That is not a battle that can be won. We can only ever swim through water – we can never defeat it.
This was exactly the frame of mind that he was in. Lionel (Leo for short) would often find himself in that other category – those people whose mood would be adversely affected because they found themselves carrying around wet slabs for clothing rather than the outfit they had earlier chosen for themselves. But today was different. He was thoroughly in-tune with the world, and felt completely liberated by the rainfall. He would stare up into the sky and find the sight enchanting: a million raindrops falling down all around him, he looking up; they were coming to him. Far from them being unwelcome visitors, they added a sense of gravitas to the occasion. Far from being an experience he wanted to forget, they were all adding to the sensation that this was to be an unforgettable few moments.
The setting was perfect. His mind-set was perfect. He was healthy, aware and at the right intersection between nervous and excited. He was able to speak – just about – and though not relaxed, was ready.
He slipped his phone out of his pocket, trying (and failing) to shield it from the rain, and saw that he was right on time. At that moment, the screen flashed and a message read: ‘Where are you? x’
*
The reflection displayed dark brown, almost hazel eyes, with no eyelash out of place. Above these were two thin eyebrows with a distinctive shape, curving slightly upwards and then down again – yet again, not a hair out of place. In her left nostril was a small silver ring which was the only asymmetrical feature of an otherwise completely flawless face, adding a piece an element of character to her appearance which teetered on the brink of being overpoweringly flawless. It was almost as if she was unreal – but it was precisely because her beauty was completely devoid of all of the usual get-pretty-quick techniques that it was so stunning. Her lips were an almost magical pink of a delicate hue, her skin tone was quite literally unbelievable. Not quite pale, not quite tanned – just somewhere in the middle, where words couldn’t touch. Her hair was a thorough, deep brunette and, almost inevitably, seemed perfectly apportioned to her appearance and personality, running halfway down her back.
Her name was Georgia, but ‘grace’ might have been a better fit. Such elegance that many people couldn’t see it – because they couldn’t handle it. It was almost unfair that such a person should exist, so they focused on darker things, more troubling things. Immoral, dirty things. Her existence was almost unreal.
When she smiled, the world stopped.
When she had a serious or sombre expression, her lips parted exposing the edges of perfect teeth.
The world stopped.
Her eyebrows always stayed the same. In perfect unison, in their perfect shape. It was an endless argument: was she more beautiful when she was happy, or concerned? Elegance versus the sultry.
That was what her reflection showed – and it is what everyone with sight could see. Except her. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see perfection, she didn’t see symmetry and she certainly didn’t see ‘grace’, ‘elegance’ or ‘the sultry’.
She only saw the person that had grown from an inquisitive, unique child into an equally inquisitive young woman. In her nineteen years she had seen a lot of things – and was all the more interesting for it – but she didn’t see the beauty that others did.
Often, the girls that do see beauty in the mirror only see physical beauty – or rather those features which others lust after. But Georgia was truly beautiful: if such a thing can be believed, the thoughts, beliefs and dreams that people couldn’t see were almost more beautiful than her flawless exterior.
She turned away from the mirror, apparently finding a blemish (which wasn’t really there). She looked around her bedroom, at a John Lennon poster with the peace sign as a background, round an odd stuffed animal head stuck to one of the walls and at her black, puffy, fluffy cat who was sitting on her bed next to the book she was currently reading. She couldn’t see what she was looking for.
She heard a vibrating noise and realised it was at the bottom of her bag. She rummaged around inside, past a few books, a bottle of perfume and various other trinkets and finally pulled it out. It was flashing a unique colour, which meant that a particular person had contacted her. The message read:
‘The weather isn’t fun. Bring an umbrella… or wear a coat! x’
She looked out of her bedroom window and started to drift into her thoughts, as she often did. She was mesmerised by those same grey clouds that she would later be standing under, and began to think important thoughts.
That feeling of importance began to coarse through her veins and wash over her – the knowledge that memories were about to be made. That day. In just a little while. That version of her – the person she was right then, with those beliefs, those dreams, that appearance, that frame of mind – that was the identity that would be the memory maker. The girl that would be at the core of memories for a long time to come. She was extremely nervous. She began to shake, but a powerful, uncontrollable smile crept across her face.
Anyone who had cared to see her reflection in the mirror might just have seen the most beautiful, genuine smile in the world.
A smile beautiful not just because of the person smiling it – but a smile that seemed to transcend and engage the basic facts of life. That life was finite. That there was no afterlife. That this was it. That it was moments like these that meant everything. That there was nothing else: only those moments which are so profound that they become memories, and fuel us in our darkest days, driving us forward in the hope we get just one more. The smile that, whether it was to be fulfilled or not, signifies one thing.
Hope.
*
What makes memories memorable?
Often it’s that they’re completely unpredictable. That, literally, even if one runs through as many possible situations and outcomes in their head as they can, the real and unforgettable result never even occurred to them.
Other times it’s the rarity of the situation. Life mostly consists of waiting around waiting for something big to happen. And then it happens, and we react (rather than consciously act), and history is written. And then we return to waiting around. We have another memory. Another day has passed, and try as we might we can’t grab time and ask it to take us back. We move on constantly. Incessantly. Unceasingly – until we cease. There are no breaks. Sleep is as close as we get to a break – and that’s no break at all, because sleep isn’t promised. Ask any insomniac and they’ll tell you that ‘resting’ isn’t always restorative. We lay awake at night thinking of what could have been, what might have been, what should have been… and then there’s:
What could be.
Dreams coming true are the most powerful positive memories there are.
We spend so long dreaming – some of us seriously and aimlessly, some of us with serious intentions of fulfilling them, or dying trying – that when they happen it’s déjà vu. We’ve run over the end results so many times that, in opposition to unpredictable memories – we know exactly what has happened – we dreamt of its happening, but we are reduced to children as the world stuns us, kisses us on the forehead and leaves us something to remember until our dying day.
The birth of a child.
A friendship set in stone.
A reunion.
Unity.
The first kiss of two lovers.
*
‘I remember, I was in the library, with my girlfriend at the time. She was doing her work (pretending to) and I was there doing it for her. We were in a very bad place at the time. Even though we were together for a many months after. I liked doing her work so we wouldn’t have to talk. So I wouldn’t have to endure some banal conversation or run through an argument with no winner for the hundredth time. And then… I noticed you. A few seats down. And I remember thinking to myself, “what am I doing?” I re-evaluated my entire life at that exact moment.
‘I was completely intimidated, of course, and I couldn’t act. But my thoughts were racing, as was my pulse. She was talking to me about this and that, and I was probably answering vacantly (because the questions were the same so many times, I could recite the answers from memory) and yet I was just thinking about you. Not with any hopes of ever even speaking to you properly. Well, I hoped that I might, but I didn’t think I would.’
‘I remember.’
Not believing her, Leo continued: ‘I wanted to run away with you.’
‘I really do remember.’
All this was said virtually. But Leo was silenced. He left his computer screen on that night, that unforgettable night where the state of the world changed forever in a way it had done only once before, and looked in the mirror.
He didn’t see the same flawlessness that was revealed any time someone looked at Georgia. But he wasn’t looking at his appearance. He didn’t notice dark brown hair, blue eyes, or a beard. He was only checking to see if he was dreaming.
He wasn’t.
The smile on his face was all he needed to see to realise that this was really happening. The nuances of the expression revealed everything. No dream could match it. His smile read, and I quote:
The girl – the only girl – I’ve ever looked up to in awe – the only girl I’ve been intimidated by, been too scared to talk to, been unconfident to approach… Georgia – the girl I’ve dreamt of talking to, let alone what just happened… the girl I have, point blank, placed on a pedestal… feels the same way about me.
He scurried back to his computer screen and apologised for leaving the conversation (terrible internet etiquette), but was relieved to find out that she had gone out for a cigarette. Apparently she was so shocked by his revelation that she had to check if she was dreaming too.
A perfect moment shared in unison, and yet not in person. Miles away, but their thoughts completely in sync. A shining example of the electricity pulsing through their bodies – and the electricity pulsing through a complicated matrix of wires in telephone lines and through servers – merging to produce one thing: magic. Memories. Moments they would never forget.
But this was still all virtual.
They had to meet.
*
‘I’m here.’
Leo pressed send and placed his phone back into his coat pocket in the hope that it wouldn’t drown in all the rain. He looked up at the sky once more. He smiled a smile akin to the one he had when checking if he was dreaming, weeks ago.
Though he had been patient to wait for their meeting, quite aware that there was nothing certain about what was to happen, and painfully perceptive to the reality that it was quite possible that nothing could come from all this, the rime had finally arrived. The weeks of waiting were worth it – no matter what happened. He had woken up each day anticipating this exact moment, and, as odd as it may sound, he was so glad that he hadn’t died in the time between that night and this. He just had to live this day and see what would happen.
His excitement was starting to give way to more and more nervousness when he received another message:
‘I'm here too. I can’t see anything! Shout! x’
Leo’s pulse quickened in an instant. He couldn’t see any human forms around: only rain. A thick blanket of water falling from the sky. If anything, somehow the rain was falling even more heavily. It was the heaviest rain he had ever seen. Monsoon-like.
Aware that he had never spoken to her in person, alone, this was going to be the first thing he would say during this fateful event. He tried to think of the right thing to say; a witty line? Just her name? What intonation? What stress? What tone?
He was overthinking. And he knew it. So he simply called out:
‘Georgia?’
Nothing.
‘Geor—‘
He heard a muffled noise ahead. A response. It was her.
He started walking towards the noise. Underfoot, he was walking where three roads met, but it was particularly quiet and there was no traffic. They had the road to themselves. They had the space to unfold their lives, right here, right now.
The rain really was impossible to see through. They didn’t see each other until they bumped into one another.
‘Georgia,’ he said again, this time sure of what to say.
She was a few inches smaller than him, and looked up at him with a stunning expression. She had managed to combine the sultry and the elegant. She would have stopped him dead in his tracks had he not been expecting her to look this beautiful. If he hadn’t thought long and hard about what he wanted out of this moment.
They didn’t speak. They simply stared into each other’s eyes.
Hers brown. His blue.
The rain continued to pour down and they were both completely soaked. Almost naked; there were no facades. There was no one around. Just them. Their hair was completely at the mercy of the rain and there was a constant stream of rain down their faces. In the background there was the soothing, undulating sound of raindrops lashing down against the tarmac of the crossroads they were standing on. There were a number of trees lining the side of the road, adding an extra texture of sound as the rain hit the thick leaves of the trees before splashing down with the rest of the rain drops on the ground. It sounded almost like a quiet waterfall.
They lingered in a moment that was halfway between being lost for words and the want to smile. A surge of warmth was spreading within them, an indescribable emotion that can only be translated as: everything is going to be okay.
Whether that was true or not was unimportant. It was simply one thing.
Hope fulfilled.
Without hesitation – but perfectly calmly, smoothly, and sweetly – he gave her a look and she instantly understood. He put his arms around her shoulder and they shared an embrace which transcended words. It would be a moment they never forget.
He kissed her forehead.
She felt protected, and somehow loved, though they had never made physical contact before.
He felt as if a dream had come true.
He didn’t want the moment to end. Which is often the way memorable moments go. Everything was unspoken. It was the right thing to do.
‘It’s nice to meet you. Properly.’
‘Likewise,’ she said, smiling an impossibly beautiful smile. His heart ran cold, then warm, then cold. Then warm.
‘You didn’t bring an umbrella.’
‘I did bring a coat, though.’
They laughed at the absurdity of the situation. And then, from the particular to the grand – as Leo had dreamt they might share in common, their love of the profound – the topic of conversation turned.
‘This is incredible,’ she said, looking up towards the sky. Leo smiled to himself as she unknowingly copied what he had done moments ago.
Who could have dreamt they would be so similar?
‘It’s beautiful,’ she continued.
Leo realised that this was the perfect opportunity to say what his mind was screaming out: ‘so are you.’ But he didn’t. He had to do something else. There was now a tension in the air – still unspoken. As comfortable as they both somehow felt – although there was still nervousness present -- it was clear that they were both in awe of the other – Leo knew what he had to do.
She looked down from the sky after noticing that the sunlight had pierced a slight hole through the largest cloud in the sky, lighting up the scene just slightly. They could see each other better. She looked at him and this time her face displayed an even more intense expression. It said one thing. But Leo had already acknowledged his role a few seconds ago, and was ready for it.
Lights. Camera. Action.
He gave her a look of unqualified intensity and no one in the world could have mistaken it. She acquiesced, and moved her body in the corresponding direction. Their eyes closed. Their lips met. He caught one last glance at her flawless face, her now glittering-eyes and her lips, with their distinctive pink hue -- and then he felt a perfectly weighted sensation on his own. Rain continued to fall, but anyone who would have cared to have looked would have seen them embrace in perfect harmony with complete grace and ease, as if they had done it a million times. He held her tightly – and yet softly – around her lower back and brought her closed to him; she made a similar movement towards his upper back, her fingers tensing and relaxing along in synchronicity to the rhythm of the moment.
And there, in that heavy rainfall, the rest of the world stopped existing. Two dreamers who had dreamt the opposite sides of the same dream had been given the opportunity not only to exist and to flourish as human beings – which an infinite number of would-be people never get the chance to do – but were able to share a moment that would live a life of its own.
The crescendo of a narrative which had been years in the making – over in an instant – resigned then to the past -- but one of many similar unforgettable moments in the history of the world. When all is said and done, there will only ever be memories. And when there are no humans left, there will be nothing left. Which makes such moments all the more profound.
The first kiss of two lovers.
A memory in the making.
A Short Story,
Published 26 April 2012
Published 26 April 2012