Volta

Kitty's Bar

The time has come for me to tell my story, its beginning a random moment in time, its end not yet known, the main body of it unfolding as I write to live and live to write.

It all started around six months ago in October, that time of year when the shards of winter are piercing the mid autumn temperatures like icicles growing through an invisible thermal layer, protruding just enough to let you know that they are not going away anytime soon.

I find this time of year to be one of the darkest for me, mentally and emotionally. Magazine editors are no longer in search of articles relating to health and wellbeing, summer days out and spontaneous holidays abroad. They are more geared towards Xmas displays, recipes, winter warmers and anything else that has the potential for a festive theme. I struggle to write about such topics, uncompromising in my lack of desire to contribute to a season that places even further burden on my already stretched finances.

With little work being accepted by my usual channels, heating bills rising, and an increased need to remain indoors because of the erratic weather, my all round situation in October tends to feel bleak, like a desert continually being pummeled by the brutal consistency of the sun, as though I allow the external conditions of living to seep under my skin, irritating its pigments until I literally get on my very own nerves, driving me to a seething annoyance with the frugal conditions of my existence.

Berating myself by indulging in one of those formal conversations within the mind, its dialogue varying between ‘get-a-normal-job’ and ‘but-I-could-never-quit-writing’, I realised that more and more I was transforming into Master Frodo’s Gollom: my eyes bloodshot with worry, the rings underneath them excessively dark, and my forehead furrowed like a sand dune, when, at my age, my face should not display such signs of abuse: a reflection of the pendulum of my personality as it oscillates between self-pity and selfless piety.

With what money I had left in my purse I decided to go to Kitty’s Bar, where I ordered a very large whiskey and then made myself comfy next to the log fire, the aim being to defrost my thoughts and warm my bones.

Not long after I had settled in a woman entered the bar, and something about her immediately grabbed my attention. She was immaculately dressed, her clothes very unique, every detail accounted for, from her hat down to her shoes. In her hand she carried a bag that reminded me of an oversized and yet very stylish battery charger. It was certainly not your everyday attire – I had never seen anything like it before - and my first thoughts were that she was a very successful woman, although in what field I could not tell. She carried a distinguished air of confidence about her in a manner that was welcoming.

I watched her as she ordered a drink at the bar, during which time she engaged in light-hearted conversation with the barman, his face giving the impression that he was quite mesmerised by this customer, his youthful banter carrying with it undercurrents of flirtation.

As she took the first sip from her drink, she turned her body, her glance sweeping the entirety of the area, mentally registering everything and everyone. Then her gaze met with mine, and as it did I felt a flash of light fill my mind, as though a firework had hit it in the virgin stages of its explosion, so much so that my heartbeat increased and my palms started to sweat. Feeling slightly uncomfortable with this interaction, I distracted my eyes by pretending to read messages on my phone, unsure of what had just happened.

When I looked in her direction again, she was ordering another drink even though her glass still contained plenty. I struggled to take my eyes off her as she did this, her whole presence being like a magnet upon my senses. I think she must have felt my stare because she quickly turned, her eyes meeting mine for a second time, upon which she smiled and then walked towards me.

“This is for you,” she said, putting a whiskey on the table before me. “My name is Volta.”

She stretched out her glove-covered hand, which I instinctively shook.

“Hello,” I stuttered, “I am Rachel. Rachel Grace.”

“Your hand is cold,” she replied, sitting in a chair next to me.

I felt my cheeks redden, unsure of what to say or do, and so I simply asked her if she lived in the area. She informed me that she didn’t, and that her work took her to many places, sometimes several different ones in the same night.

“What do you do?” I enquired.

“That will become known to you. But first,” she said, “give me your hand.”

I did as she asked, and she clasped her hands around mine. Relax, she instructed, and then she closed her eyes. Within seconds I felt heat coming from her palms into mine. It then traversed my arm as if lava from a volcano was slowly moving through my veins. When it reached my heart, I saw a hot coal in my chest, its embers the colour of a beautiful sunset, and it was emitting heat through every artery in the body. Within minutes my whole insides felt as though it had reached its perfect temperature. An unconscious deep breath left my lungs, and I suddenly felt that everything was going to be O.K.

“It is going to be as you feel,” she affirmed.

“What did you just do to me?” I asked.

“I am here to help you rekindle your inner flame: your passion for living,” she answered.

I did not respond, uncertainty causing me to remain silent. Then she leaned forward, moving her body closer to me. “Have you ever had your soul kissed from head to toe?” she whispered.

I shook my head, a silent No.

“Have you ever felt its energies moving in and around your body, making love to every cell within it?”

Of course I haven’t, I wanted to shout. Has anybody? But my words received no breath of life, and I simply responded with a quiet No.

“May I come with you to your home, where we may be intimate with each other?” she asked.

I appreciate her request seemed forward, but it was such an unusual encounter that I wanted to see where it would all lead. It was like I had discovered an untrammelled path in a mystical forest, which I yearned to walk along irrespective of the final destination.

I certainly didn’t feel threatened by her: by Volta. She appeared very beautiful and generated an overwhelming feeling of goodness. Because of this, I didn’t have any reservations about taking her back to mine. And besides, something inside of me was encouraging me to journey into the unknown: to lift up the oil lamp, daring me to feel safe within the small borders of its diffused glow.

Kitty’s Bar is only a few doors away, so we were soon inside the apartment. I observed her as she looked at the offerings on the heavily laden bookshelf, her head nodding slightly as if approving my choice of literature. I lit some candles, dimmed the lighting and poured two glasses of wine, whilst at the same time eavesdropping on a conversation that Volta was now having via her watch, the only words I could decipher being, Yes, I have located her. I am with her now.