Marcus Delacôte

Seriously when will this end

I didn't even want this to be a story with a storyline and mystery and all that. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. 

My search on the internet doesn't get me much further. 

There is, as far as I can find, no person called Marcus Delacôte, or he is entirely digitally invisible. I try the phone book but there isn't even one person called Delacôte. It's getting weirder and weirder

My mind is not with it, but I am starting on my homework. A very interesting math exercise (not) grabs my attention (lie) and I complete it (nope) in a few minutes (I'll copy it off someone). My phone buzzes and I jump up to get it. It's a text from Liam!

Hi Marlène! Fancy coming for a drink at SB? I finish at 5pm. Liam

'I could ask him about the white haired girl', I think. 

'Uh, and see him again?' another thought demands my attention. He asked me out now, basically, didn't he? I choose to flatter myself and call it that. My mum is still at work and I send her a text saying that I'm at a friend's. To Liam I text a simple OK! :), doubting for a long time whether to send a :) or a ;). 

***

I put on all stars and a faded sweater, and as I enter the shop I realise I look like your typical Starbucks hipster. I smile at the thought. It's unlike me. It's five to five and Liam is doing his last minutes of his working shift. He smiles as he sees me and drops the sharpie he is holding. I suppress a giggle and wait in line.  I wait until the elderly woman in front of me completes her order.

"Eh, hi," I say awkwardly when she's moved.

He smiles slightly. "Hello, Marlene. What can I give you today?"

"Surprise me?" I say, grinning. He smiles at that, too. His eyebrows raise slightly when he smiles, which gives him an almost permanent surpised look. It's cute.

"Alright. He writes something on the cup and passes it on to one of his colleagues. "Free of charge, of course," he adds as an afterthought to me.

"Could you please hurry up?" a voice behind me calls. It's sweet, lovely, soft but still loud enough to clearly hear, and it gives me chills. I turn my head around and start to apologise. 

Then I realise. She is wearing a green top and white skinny jeans that fit her perfectly. And she has flaming red hair that cascades in long glowing waterfalls down her back, like a sunset. She is one of the most pretty people I have ever seen.

Red - Green - White.  Is she the first thing I was warned for?

I control myself and manage not to push her away from him as fast as I can, but I just apologise and move on. She still seems annoyed but steps forward to Liam. "One capp-"

"I'm sorry," he cuts her off. "My colleague will take it from here. My shift is done."

She glares at him, her pretty face turning almost ugly, and Liam glances at me questioningly. I shrug.

"Do you know that girl?" he asks a moment later, when we sit down at a table, both with coffee in front of us.  I shake my head. 

"Never seen her," I tell him, "but there's something strange." I'm not sure if I should tell him. 

"Yeah..." he mutters, looking doubtful. I tip my head a little to the side. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, the main reason for asking you to come is actually... this." He produces a faded yellow envelope from his pocket, and I don't even have time to be offended, because that moment I recognise the slant, perfect handwriting on the envelope. 

Marcus Delacôte. 

"Do you know from who it is?" he asks urgently. Oh. I might have said that aloud, then. I shake my head confusedly, picking up the letter. "It's about you," he says, seeking my eyes. I nod, looking back down. So far for a romantic date, I think. 

"I got one too. It's been bothering me for days. At first I thought about it being a joke,  but then I started wondering if this weren't real. But it can't be real, can it?" 

He shakes his head. "It can't be. And yet it must be." He looks around and moves his face closer to mine over the table. "I've got a friend who likes to mess around with his chemistry set, and I let him check it. The letter truly is 20 years old." 

The letter was written four years before my birth. What is this? It feels like a strange dream. It also feels like this could become a good story to tell one day, and I feel a sudden rush of misplaced excitement. I'm silent for a few seconds. "I don't know what to think of this," I tell him. 

"Me neither... How can someone have posted this 20 years ago - look at the date stamp on the envelope, it really says 1994 - and know exactly what was going to happen?" He suddenly stiffens and his eyes narrow. "Don't look around, but we are being watched."

"The girl?" I ask immediately. We should have left right when we could... 

He nods. 

"Let's go," I mutter, standing up. He follows my movement. "We'll talk somewhere else," I say quietly. 

Out on the street we walk in silence for a few minutes, but when I glance over my shoulder I suddely catch a glimpse of fiery red hair. "Shit, we're being followed," I hiss.

We look at each other for a second, then begin to push ourselves through the parisian crowd, intent on getting away from the girl. She's got something about her that makes her extremely terrifying, and we run like children from a junk who frightened us with his mutterings. According to the annoyed calls of people behind us, the girl has started the pursuit. I pull Liam into a shop and we hide behind clothes racks. We watch her come to a halt before the shop, look around, say something which I guess is  a swear word, and then she runs her hands through her perfect hair, straightens her green top and vanishes into thin air, leaving us with pounding hearts and a lot to discuss.