Soulmates & Twin Flames

11 - Halloween Candy

I'm nearing the stalls doors but I can't feel my feet. Am I even walking? Feels like I'm floating.

Roman's words from earlier echo in my ears.

"Nobody. She is nobody."

Does he only see me as a fling? Is he ashamed of me? Is it about his image? Can our connection be one-sided?

Perhaps Olga is right and there's nothing magical about us. Twin flames don't exist, and Roman's just another dude who wants to get laid.

But then, he had so many chances to have his way with me. I begged him to come over to my apartment on our first date. If Roman was solely after sex, he could have had it. Easily.

I fill my cheeks with air and enter the dim theatre. Everything is red in here—the seats, the carpets, even the curtains are all deep, velvety red—but somehow my dress is redder, brighter. Heads turn as I pass by, then quickly glance away. But I'm used to it now. I'm keeping my gaze on my high heels, trying to put one foot in front of the other.

My steps quicken as I near the stage, searching for my seat. It's the empty one next to an elderly couple. My neighbor, a lady with gray hair, looks at me as I squeeze past the tight rows, and we lock eyes.

I offer her a polite smile.

She pulls her lips up in disgust, then turns away.

I stay frozen for a brief second. How dare she?

In that moment, that total stranger becomes the embodiment of everything I hate and everything that's wrong with the universe. It all happens in an instant, I can't help it. I hate her guts for merely existing.

I blame her for my bag that burst earlier.

And I blame her for the people that's been eyeing me up and down.

I blame her for my red dress.

And for Roman's awkward behavior.

I hate her!

I just hate her for being able to spend thousands of dollars on opera tickets.

Then my eyes shift toward the bald man sitting next to her, and I hate him too. He must be her husband. They probably have a cat, a white Persian breed with a grumpy face. It probably has a diamond collar around its neck, and I hate their cat too. It must have a stupid name—something short and annoying that repeats itself. Like Fluff-fluff. God, I even hate the name they picked for their imaginary pet.

I check my phone and take a seat next to my arch nemesis. When our arms accidentally touch, we both pull away at the same time.

She probably hates my guts too.

I try to ignore the negative energy from the Devil Wearing Prada, and focus on the stage. The orchestra is tuning their instruments. The high notes of flutes, the lows of trombones and occasional violins reach the audience. And I realize, I'm about to watch a man sing in gibberish.

The lights blink. I peer over my shoulder and spot Roman making his way through the aisle. He pats one of his partner's arms, then enters our row. He's checking the ticket on his phone like his life depends on it.

The main lights turn off as he approaches, and the instruments get louder. I quickly grab my bag from the empty seat beside me and straighten up, sending my date an inviting smile. But Roman doesn't look at me.

Why doesn't he look at me?

After clearing his throat, Roman leaves an empty chair between us, and sits next to an old guy.