They've been talking on Facebook and Skype for a long period of time now. She always enjoys his talk about science, psychology, life, good music... She always enjoys his virtual company. And I believe he enjoys hers too.
She's sapiosexual. He's intelligent and well-educated. She doesn't care how he looks like. He gives sharp-witted replies and talks smart, and then all what she sees is a sexy handsome man with a beautifully neglected beard and tired but witty black eyes. They haven't met yet.
**
The D-day has come. They're going to meet, today. Now! She's going to see him for the first time in her life and probably for the last time.
Her heart is beating so fast that she can hear the blood pumping and rushing in her veins up to her brain. She's shaking. She's going to faint. She's losing track of herself. Where is she? What time is it? Is this the place where they have agreed to meet? Is she right on time?
The woman sitting next to her is blabbering, but all that she can hear is the sound of her own breath, the disturbed voices inside her head and the beats of her heart which stopped swiftly when the phone rang.
It's him. This is it. He's nearby. She's going to pick up and hear his voice on the phone for the first time in her life and probably for the last time. She clears her throat and answers.
"Hello?"
He takes a few seconds to reply, embracing her voice, the sound of her breath and says:
"Mademoiselle?"
She laughs. She asked him not to call her "Mademoiselle" millions of times now, and he still insists on calling her that.
"What?" he says.
"You know I don't like you to call me Mademoiselle."
" I didn't call you Mademoiselle. I called you ma demoiselle (as in my young lady)."
She smiles peacefully.
"Where are you?" he asks.
" Oh! I'm right where we've agreed to meet."
" I see you."
" Oh wait! Don't forget what we've agreed on. I'm going to close my eyes. I won't look at you till I decide to. You need to show me your hands and your ID to make sure it's you."
" You're crazy. You know how my face looks like from my Facebook photos."
" You like crazy. Plus, I'm paranoiac. I admit it. It's just that no matter how many times I contemplate your photos, I can't get to memorize your face. I keep getting the feeling that I'm missing some details that the camera always fails to capture. Now would you just do as I wish.
"OK. I see you. Here I come. Hang up."
They hang up the phone.
She closes her eyes as she keeps reiterating to herself "Breathe, baby. Breathe."
***
"Ma demoiselle."
As his sweet voice penetrates her ears and invades her heart in a mendacious attempt to bring it peace, she tries to reach for his hands to sneak a peek and take a look at his ID. Then, with her eyes still closed, she treads one step closer to him, close enough to lay the palms of her hands on his chest, to get inebriated on the smell of his body mixed with the remains of his body lotion. She raises her hands to his face. She smiles and says "You didn't shave".
He doesn't reply.
"I love how your beard feels like."
He still says nothing. But she can feel a ghost of a smile put on his face.
He remains silent as she keeps traveling through the tiniest details of the upper part of his body with her hands. After she's done with his red beard, she climbs to touch his hair, then down to his eyebrows, his nose, avoiding his lips. She wouldn't dare touching his lips, not in one hundred and fifty years. She's too much of a coward to dare to touch his lips.
He breaks from his silence and says "Are you done yet? Are you going to open your eyes? I want to see your eyes."
"Shush. Shut up and hug me."
She throws herself into his arms and hugs him tightly for the first time in her life and probably for the last time. She hugged him for twenty whole minutes, and he didn't let go. She hugged him and let his spirit touch hers and heal her bruised soul.
She takes a deep breath. She opens her eyes, slaps him in the face as hard as she can and runs away till she disappears in the crowd.
"Ma demoiselle.. Wait!"
And all what he can see is a ghost of her.
**
Days have passed. He hasn't called yet. She didn't care at first because she was mad at him that she could feel fire racing through her, so mad that she dared to slap him in the face. At first, she couldn't stand the thought of him. Then, she started to wonder why he hasn't called yet. Was he manipulating her? Is that what he wanted to do all from the beginning? No. It can't be. What he did was wrong. But why wouldn't he call? Did he have an accident? Did something wrong happen to him? Her brains are going to explode. She can't stop over-thinking about him. She can't write a single word. Her mind has been blocked for days now. She can't publish a single article. She can't edit any. She's got her head in the clouds, and her employees are starting to notice it. She snaps. She grabs her car keys and walks out of her office, intending to head home.
She's about to open her car door when she hears someone from behind sedately say "Why did you run away from me? Was I that disgusting to you?" Her hands start to tremble. She takes one step back and turns prudently. It's him! She can barely breathe. She feels bewildered. She does want him to contact her and apologize. That is true. But, she didn't expect him to show up at her work place. She summons her strength and mutters,
"That's not it. You know that's not why I slapped you. Stop acting like a typical jerk who tries to turn this on me and get himself off the hook. I expect you to apologize, to say how sorry you are, to..."
"Sorry for what?!"
"Sorry for what you've done!"
"What have I done wrong?!"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Alright. I am sorry. I am sorry because I'm not sorry for what I did that day. I've been eager to see you, to hold your hands, to touch you, to smell your hair, to k....."
"Stop! Don't finish that word."
She starts weeping. She can't hold back the tears. He approaches her. He puts his hand on her left shoulder and starts to carefully get closer to her as he's afraid that she would reject him and push him away and probably slap him again.
"Please tell me Ma demoiselle. Why did you react in such an unfathomable way?"
"You know... You know that I've never been kissed before, and yet you've stolen that moment from me. I wanted it to be special. I wanted it to be mutual. I wanted to see it coming. And there you were, forcing a passionate kiss on my helpless lips when it was least expected."
It was then that he felt sorry. He felt sorry for ruining that moment for her. Now every time she remembers her first kiss, she will remember this hapless story. All he wanted to do at that moment is to wipe every tear from her eyes and hug her pain away. But he can't. She might reject him. She might slap him again. She might ask him to never touch her again and to never talk to her ever again.
He pulls himself away from her. She notices what he did. She gets scared that he will walk away and consequently never see him again. She rapidly clears her throat and says,
"Why did it take you this long to contact me?"
"I didn't know what to do," he quietly mumbles facing the ground. "I was socked. I felt sort of offended. I thought you were disgusted by my kiss; by me. I... I was the one who was waiting for you to call me actually. And when I gave up, I decided to come here and face you."
"Well, now you know why I reacted that way. But I haven't heard that 'sorry' yet."
He smiles at her and approaches her fervently and says "I'm deeply sorry. I thought that was what you wanted too. I thought you wanted me as much as I wanted you. I thought you were ready."
"All I wanted is a hug. Isn't that enough to you?"
When he gives no reply, she continues "Aha! Of course it's not."
She touches his face to feel his beard with the tips of her soft rosy hands and says "Oh! You're such an adorable man." Then, she quotes Jane Austen in her Sense and Sensibility book, "If I could but know [your] heart, everything could become easy."
She lays a tender kiss on his forehead. And then she slaps him in the face, gently this time. He did nothing to deserve that slap- absolutely nothing. To be explicit, he didn't kiss her.
As he stands in front of her in complete shock, almost traumatized, she explains,
"I'm sorry. But babe, you earned that slap. That's for waiting a whole year and not having the guts to ask me out."
He stands there. He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't make any reaction, as if she is watching TV and she pressed pause. He simply froze. That's when it hits her; the bitter reality of this perfect man of hers. He's not real. He doesn't exist. He only exists in her sleepy head and weary imagination. She's too tired to finish the story inside her mind. She needs to go to sleep now and all what this imaginary Mr. Perfect can do is put her into bed and kiss her goodnight.
"Douce nuit, ma demoiselle à moi."
