Storytime Trysts: Some Might Call It Magic

Some might call it magic

Carolyn was no stranger to intimacy, or the notion of soul mates. She’d seen it play out from a front row seat when her longtime lover Colb found Tangyr. Who could say what was created or happened when two halves of the same soul connected? Certainly not she. Some might call it magic. She’d been let down, disappointed, and sore. Always the same story for the one left behind. In truth, she’d seen it coming for months. Still, seeing the headlamp of the engine doesn’t undercut the impact of the train, it just makes you wait for it.

That had been years ago, and Boston had become shrouded, a haze falling over everything she once knew, or thought she knew. The swinger’s parties were all about scratching an itch now, nothing more. So many had come and gone; parties she could no longer count on hands alone where she went stag, and returned home the same way. The longing for something more, for a connection of any kind, had long since faded and she’d stopped looking. Hope was just another four letter word.

It was still a good month to the next party, the last one more dismal than most in recent memory; not worth the time to recount or replay looking for how it had gone wrong, so she didn’t. Snow was falling early thanks to a nor’easter moving along the coast and she was restless. Wandering the neighborhood seeking solace from her memories, she found herself standing outside a local club she enjoyed and she stopped. Before continuing toward the door, turning her chin up, eyes closed, she focused on the tiny cold stings as flake after flake caressed her face.

Not willing to give up the sensation, she reached blindly behind her for the lamp post for support, instead grabbing someone’s arm. Flustered, she spun around to apologize nearly toppling them both. His laughter was contagious as was the simple smile she saw first as she tried to regain her footing and release the arms attached to the hands that now held her up. It was an electric moment that passed between them though no words had been spoken. After a long delay, Carolyn declared, “I’m okay” and he let her go with a nod and a smile.

Pointing to the flurries dancing on an up gust, his quiet tenor vibrato soothed her frayed senses as he stated, not questioned, “Beautiful. Peaceful. Magical.” She liked that. Looking at him instead of the snow, she had to concur. He had deep brown eyes surrounded by lines that gave him away as one who smiled and laughed. Tufts of blonde hair shot out in multiple directions behind a slightly receding hairline, and his mouth quirked a smile as he astutely stated, “You’re not looking at the snow.” Busted. A fever blush blossomed, stealing up her throat to encase her face before she could adjust her gaze and turn to see and smile at the vortex of snow he was watching.

A wordless eternity of wonder later, he turned back to her, motioned to the club entrance and asked if she was going in. She noticed he watched her reply and didn’t fuss around or try to look like he wasn’t looking. He was. The blood of her blush, not dead yet, raced for the surface again and she nodded, batting her hands against her arms as if she were cold. His smirk spokes volumes of ‘I’m not buying it’ but the words said, “May I join you?”

Mike wasn’t a beer guy, a sports guy, or any other kind of stereotypical guy. He watched and listened, commented and questioned but always to the topic at hand and only to add to the conversation. They found they both liked Pavarotti and Escher, and preferred the company of cats to humans for casual companionship. They had both loved, but mostly lost, and they had both stopped looking. Long into the evening she learned as he apologized for seeming to stare, that he was hearing impaired, and they had a long loud laugh when she replied that she was life impaired. Talking was comfortable and free flowing. It seemed that no subject was off limits, though many went untouched, leaving ample subjects for the future.

Pot and lid, hand and glove…they fit together in an odd but too familiar way that made ‘goodbye’ too tragic to say. Later in the night than she had planned to be out when she started, he called her a cab though she wasn’t far from home, paid the fare and tip to the driver in advance of her leaving the curb, and opened the door for her only after pressing a card into her hand. No pomp or circumstance; only a kiss on the cheek and his hand on the glass instead of waving as she drove off. Looking down at the card the haze that had covered her beloved Boston seemed to break as she read:

B. Michael Brethal, PhD

Archaeology & Antiquities

University of Massachusetts, Boston

On the back was a scribbled phone number, smiley face, and a simple note; ‘Use it. ~Mike’

The haze that had lifted gave way to a new fog that enveloped Carolyn on the short ride, the climb to her loft and the whole ‘unlock the door, go inside, lock the door’ part of her evening as she recounted the snowflakes, the conversation, and him introducing himself simply as ‘Mike’. Talking out loud to no one, “I wonder what the ‘B’ stands for…” Smiling the secret smile that women sometimes wear, she readied for bed and laid down still turning the card over and back in her hand, deciding right then that she would call. Glancing out the window just as a gust of air whirled another batch of snow into a twist; she enjoyed the beauty and a peacefulness she hadn’t felt in years.

Yes, she thought; some might call it magic.

Today's story is from Abyrne Mostyn. His book Swingers was featured on our blog, and is still in archives. The completed book is available at Amazon.