Page 11 of Laced in Longing

Where is he?

I jolt at the unfamiliar urgency in my question. My muscles tense as my heart beats faster than the moment warrants. I pace the perimeter of the terrace, fingers trailing across the rough texture of the stone balustrade, trying to ground myself in the sensation when my mind wants to race ahead.

What’s wrong with me? This eagerness is so foreign and uncomfortable—like wearing someone else’s skin. I don’t do eager. Nor do I look forward to things. I exist in a perpetual state of neutral-to-negative expectation, where the best outcome is that nothing particularly awful happens.

Yet here I stand, bouncing on my toes, searching for a figure that shouldn’t mean anything to me. A figment of my imagination. A symptom of my deteriorating mental state.

Nothing more…or so I tell myself.

So why does the hollowness grow when minutes pass and he doesn’t appear? Why does my throat burn?

The loneliness skates over my scalp, hunting for my sufferance. It’s not the general sense of isolation I’ve carried my entire life. This feels almost targeted, as if I’m missing something that was once there, rather than longing for something I’ve never had. As if my mind is laughing at me for hoping he would visit tonight. Still, I wait.

The dream doesn’t progress as normal, instead choosing to remain stagnant for what feels like hours. Eventually I seat myself in a wrought-iron chair at a small table, spreading my hands over the cool surface. My fingers are always prettier here—more elegant with perfectly shaped nails instead of ones bitten to the quick. I study them to pass the time, counting backward from one hundred, a childish attempt to summon him through superstition.

By the time I reach thirty-four, my patience fractures. This is ridiculous. I’m sitting in a dream, waiting for a hallucination that’s part of the same dream.

I’m literally waiting for myself.

And I can’t even do that right.

I stand as heavy heat buzzes through my veins. The water below assaults the shore, waves breaking in a pattern that I’d normally find soothing but only increases my agitation. My jaw clenches tight enough to ache, teeth grinding against each other.

“This is stupid,” I mutter aloud.

If he’s not coming, I should at least enjoy the scenery before I wake up. Isn’t that the point of dreaming about places I’ll never visit? To experience them, however falsely?

I turn my back on the empty terrace, preparing to explore the winding streets. Maybe I’ll find a café, sit alone with a dream-cappuccino and pretend I’m the kind of person who travels to Italy on a whim.

“You wait for me.”

The voice freezes me mid-step. It reverberates through my bones before reaching my ears, as if it originates from inside me rather than behind. Deep, textured, with a quality that reminds me of smoke. It’s both ancient and present, a voice that has existed forever but speaks only to me.

I face him slowly, heart skittering against my ribs. He stands at the far end of the terrace, as if he’s been there all along and I simply failed to notice. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, in that same black coat. The white fabric still drapes across his face, obscuring his features completely, flowing down over one arm.

But something has changed…the static that usually blurs his edges has vanished. He’s solid and clear now.

The rising sun casts his long shadow toward my feet as if it’s reaching for me.

“You’re late,” I reply, surprising myself with the accusation. It’s not like we had an appointment.

For the first time, he moves; steps forward in one fluid motion. “Time moves differently where I dwell.” His voice sends a shiver down my spine as bumps rise along my arms.

“And where is that, exactly?” My pulse races so fast it thuds in my fingertips.

He doesn’t answer, instead tilting his head in that now-familiar gesture of consideration. The fabric shifts with the movement but reveals nothing beneath.

“You have questions.” Not a question of his own, but a statement of fact.

I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Only about a million.”

“Ask.”

In my waking life, I bristle at directives from others. Here, something about his voice makes me want to comply. To please.

“Who are you?” I start easy with the question I’ve asked before.

He takes another step toward me, closing the distance by half. The details of his clothing stand out now—the way the coat fits his frame as if tailored specifically for him, the slight sheen of the black fabric that suggests how expensive it is.