“Lieshe,” I mumble under my breath. Repeating the same line I’ve said all my life, I go on to explain, “Like Alicia, but without the A.”
Charlie meets my eyes and in the same monotone asks, “Do you know you have two different colored eyes?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I reply with an even bigger sigh.
I always find it strange that people comment on my heterochromia by asking if I know about it. Of course, IknowI was born with one solid amber eye and one with a large splash of yellow-green. I guess they didn’t know what else to say.
When I was younger, not surprisingly, kids had picked on me about it. When I was in high school, I even wore colored contacts to make my eyes the same color so no one would ask me about it. I never tried hard to be different, as my father accused; I was just born this way. Personality, eyes, and all that came with it.
Eventually, I learned to accept my eyes as one of my many quirks. Although I still struggle with both my confidence and accepting myself, I am making progress. Now, if only I can find some hot guy to accept me, too.
My light in the darkness shoots across the street like a falling star.
Hypnotic.
Enchanting.
Transcendent.
I can’t help following her into the coffee shop. Sitting in a corner, I pretend to read a newspaper so I can hide my ragged breathing at seeing her again. Her every move mesmerizes me, while she remains innocent to my very existence.
I always have an awareness of her. Every time her soul pops back into existence, it’s like my world turns back into technicolor. And every time she is gone, black and white silence. Fuzzy static. Agonizing nothingness of years passing by. Sometimes centuries.
My own personal hell.
I’ve learned over many, many lifetimes to wait in the periphery until she calls to me. The wait is excruciating. I ruminate on every mistake of the last lifetime where I’ve lost her until I’m invariably torturing myself toward insanity.
Some days, I think I am already there.
Just when I believe my mind will break to match my heart that shattered so very long ago, it is time. And thankfully, my emissaries keep me informed until she calls to me. One of my few tools against the madness that would, beyond a shadow of a doubt, overtake me without her.
I had been called back to America by her presence. This isn’t one of my favorite countries. It's too noisy and young. It has purposefully been years since I have last been here.
I have already bought the two buildings next to hers and will convert them to suit my needs while I am here. The other property I still own in America is too far away to be useful.
My mind drifts back to the last time she summoned me here. Memories of her and I caught up in the tantrum of this country, cutting its teeth like an infant. The evil of man never ceases to surprise me, thinking he can hold dominion over his fellow man. Ridiculous.
I have seen civilizations rise and fall, beautiful and ugly, many lost to time and memory. And every single one had fallen due to man’s hubris.
I wonder with idle curiosity, but no genuine concern, about the current condition of my southern estate. The Fields, who have served me for what feels like an eternity, manage my properties and affairs around the world. But they could all rot into disrepair for all I care.
Material things are inconsequential to me, acquired only to serve a purpose. I imbue memories into my skin rather than holding on to something physical that will crumble and revert to dust.
My few treasured items that can stand the test of time are always on my body, like my rings. No other worldly possessions hold as much value to me as they do.
My eternal love talks to the barista, and the sound of her voice snaps my attention back to her in the present day. Sometimes the details of her blur from one lifetime to the next, memories superimposed upon themselves. There have been ever so many.
I catch her scent beyond the coffee beans and baked goods of the shop. The warm note of sunshine mixed with the dark floral of the roses I cultivate to keep her scent with me through the ages. I want to cover her with their petals and nothing else.
Even beyond that, I would recognize her anytime, anywhere. Her face haunts my every day, memories of touching her haunt my every night. Every fleck in her amber eyes, the exact shade of the yellow-green splash in her other eye, even every freckle, seared into my memory. Imprinted into what little remains of my threadbare soul.
I can recall the richness of her laughter and the breathy moans of her release as easily as I can recall the sound of my own voice. I have mapped her body with my hands and lips until her contours were etched into the very fiber of my being.
I’m thankful the newspaper is hiding my face, as I can’t imagine the unbridled lust it must show as I picture her spread before me like the finest meal, covered in the midnight red rose petals that bear her scent. My yearning for her knows no bounds.
Memories of the feel of her skin on my fingertips, softer even than the roses, are like a phantom pain in my soul. My mind’s eye pictures how her brown curls would tangle in my fingers. I stop myself at the thought of her flavor bursting on my tongue.
Swallowing hard, I peek over the top of the newspaper at her. Some things she does in every lifetime, another nuance that makes it difficult to sort them out in my head. Like biting her lip, as she does now, or showing each thought and emotion on her face.
