That note… who knows what would happen now? It revealed secrets in just a few short words, as though he had poured every part of his soul into an indelible device that distilled it down to just the essence. He knew it was a risk. She may not respond how he wanted, no, wished her to. Yearned for her to, in his secret heart. We regret the things we don’t do far more than the things we do.
It was too late now to take it back, to take it out of the book, to take it from her lovely hands. Not that he would ever dream of taking the book she loved to hold and read, with the Japanese gardens and morning glories. He didn’t expect, never expected her to run out with it. Wind and fire, streaking across the sky, leaving contrails of… despair and pain?
He had thrown open the door in a polite just-in-case maneuver, not realizing she was just behind him. She was upset, quite so. He very carefully considered running after her, but his bus was late, and she was taken. He got on, wistfully looking back at her. Was she crying? Had she seen the note already?
What was he doing, anyway? What did he hope to accomplish by tempting the shadows to bring his soul to hell? Shredding his sensibilities, ripping his heart because of feelings? Well…
Feelings he had not felt for some time, since the beginning of this, the somewhat desolate ghost town that was his relationship. Ravens picked at his eyeballs on every corner, while echoes of his body swung from a noose at every gallows. He waited on the thirteenth step, gaijin ghost, Death herself his only friend, shinigami-chan, coming for his life force…
He snapped into awareness, having passed his stop. He forced himself to skip the next and get off at the second, as punishment for his musings into dreamland, where the fabric of reality and surreality meet like the slip and lace beneath a bridal gown, hiding secrets just as dear.
The simple words of the note resonated within the empty chambers of his skull as he approached his front door. Carefully crafted, simply stated, finely distilled in the smokiest of oaken barrels, using the purest of intentions, the sweetest of elixirs.
Never better than the real her
Never better than to feel her
Call me at your pleasure for coffee and absolution.
The number seemed superfluous, the obvious weak link in the chain. With its inclusion, the situation would remain agonizingly unresolved. She would either call, or she would not call. It wasn’t that simple. Would she really know who he was, the awakening dragon who no longer guarded his treasures? Would she comprehend that she made him realize that keeping it to himself wasn’t the point of treasure? That it was the pursuit of it, the gathering of it, the quests through exotic and dire circumlocutions of thought that required swords of comfort and compassion to cut through? That travels through steamy jungles of misunderstanding finding gemstones of truth required eyes on the road, eyes in the air, and third eyes on the astral plane? That this sleeping dragon become enlightened man had transformed with one look from the twin cerulean depths beneath her blonde hair? He would never call her his dream girl. She was exquisitely, consummately, absolutely real.
Of course, he thought to himself in a sudden moment of sobriety, there is always the possibility that she does call, thinking him to be someone else. Forget not knowing who he was deep inside, a sandstorm of monument-etching cyclones she left inside him in her wake.
She might not even know which of the guys in the coffee shop had left the note.