Gato

Part 3

We made our way toward the Real Jardín Botanico, where thousands of twinkling lights illuminated the 400-year-old categories of exotic flora, the trees now bare in the winter freeze lit up against the black night sky. We stared through the iron bars in sheer wonderment, eyes glittering with delight.

"It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist in this moment." He said pensively, with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

"That's a line from 100 Years of Solitude!" I tell him with fizzy excitement.

"You know Gabriel García Marquez?" I ask.

"Yes, of course, that's my favourite book."

"It happens to be mine too." I reply, thrilled to hear it.

Onwards we strolled. Instead of parting ways at the station, we instead turned down a cobbled alleyway. With my hand on his arm, we headed to Embajadores.

"Do you believe in destiny?" I asked.

"I do."

"Some believe that we live in a holographic universe and that everyone is a reflection of us. Time isn't linear, reality pops in and out of existence. Do you see yourself reflected in the world ever?" I continued.

"Yes. Have you heard of Thich Nhat Hanh? He said, 'I am a continuation like the rain is a continuation of the cloud'". As he finished the word, a lone grey cloud flashing with lightning appeared above his head. It thundered and began to rain. The drops fall on my face as I laugh.

"Oops," he giggled and tenderly wiped the rain from my cheek.

George rested his gaze calmly on me. "Me marcho pensando en volver, ven volver a caer a tu lado, como un gato. It means, 'I leave thinking of going back, going back to your side like a cat.'"

"I've heard that before, where's that from?"

"It's one of my quotes, I paint quotes onto the tarmac at street crossings."

"No way! That's you?"

"Yup."

He wore a gold signet ring on his right hand, with a cat emblem on it. "That's a lovely ring," I say inspecting his hand.

"Thanks, it was my grandfather's, it's been in the family for a long, long time." Eventually, the night led us back to my apartment.

As we passed through the hallway, the dim lights flickered. We reached the balcony where we then stood awkwardly looking down at the quiet street. It was midnight.

Now what? I begin to wonder if it was appropriate to have let this random stranger into my apartment. "You can take off your mask, it's alright." I blurt out, wanting to finally see if he was as handsome as I'd imagined.

I looked down at the street for second and then back up to see his beautiful sculpted jaw and shy but perfect grin.

We gazed down at the frozen street, smiling together.

"Dance with me," he said and Van Morrison's Moondance began to play from the speaker. Before I could say anything, we were dancing slowly to jazz. He leads like a gentleman perfectly placing his feet where they need to be and holding my waist as he stares into my eyes.

Time seems to slow down as the playlist goes from Morrison to Ellington to Fitzgerald to Simone.

I look down and realise we are dancing in the air.

"A-am I dreaming?" I stutter.

"Life is a dream." He answers.

"Come with me to the mountains this weekend." He asks.

"I'd love to. But I really don't know you well enough."

He slowly steps back and bows slightly. "I apologise, I am gentleman, I'm quite old-fashioned, as they say." She laugh at his chivalry.

"You should probably go."

I stumble over my own feet through the hallway but he catches me with lightning quick reaction time and we fall into a sweet accidental kiss. The hallway lights flicker once more as the jazz swells and echoes through the building.

"You should go."

"Goodbye, Georgina."

We say a Spanish goodbye, he smiles, winks at me, and then vanished into the dark stairway.

As the door clicks closed I awaken suddenly to very loud jazz music with the Marquez novel, 100 Years of Solitude open on my face. It's my flatmate María blasting it down the corridors from her phone.

I checked my phone. No messages from George.

I laugh incredulously. Some part of me knew that this was too perfect. Of course it was just a dream and I would never see him again, and it was fine.

I went about my day somewhat dazed and confused, trying to put it out of my mind.

But the next morning I woke up with a dull ache in my chest.

Like a spectre, I wander the giant hallways of the sixteenth-century hospital building, now the Reina Sofia Art Gallery, hoping to see him. My pallor is pasty, my eyes large and skeletal. My favourite room in the museum does nothing at all to reignite the joy I felt with George.

I stare motionless at Picasso's masterpiece, Guernica. The women in the painting weep and cry out in pain. I stare relentlessly at the overwhelming artwork for so long that my face begins to reflect the cubist rendition of the Spanish Civil War. My bones ache, my back hunches, my neck stretches out, and I project forth a tragic, disaster-struck image with a harshly angled Picasso face.

I look at the floor and long to lie down on it, curl up, and start wailing. Would they all rush around me to comfort me as I lay dying of a broken heart? The scene played out chaotically in my mind while I sat in quiet agony. I forced myself to breathe in for 4, hold for 5, and out for 7.

I make my way from the museum to my 5th home in one year.

What can I do?

Think of things that make you feel better. Replied a voice in my head.

A freshly baked croissant. A bubble bath. That would be nice.

But I remember every detail! Now he's gone! Take me away from here I am done!

Seek out the joy! Said the voice.

I sighed. Joy begets joy, says the voice as it fades away.

I arrive at the door to my apartment on the street, where a strange black cat is waiting for me, smiling serenely. He begins a loud cacophony of meows and purrs happily.

"Hello, sweet thing. What's your name?"

I bend down to pick him up, his coat is shiny and smooth, and his little velvet paws fold neatly as I bundle him into my lap, sit down, and take a look at his name tag. The small engraved mirror read:

George, 555-9732.

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