What I want to write about is mundane, completely and utterly typical. I want to tell how I was out this evening and saw the Cheese Man outside a restaurant, in the shadows between the streetlights, doing with a woman the very same thing he had been doing with me the other night, and how I went home and wept alone in my room until there was nothing left inside of me that needed to be released, until I was hollowed out and empty and cold as the surface of the moon.

What I want to write about is rarely what I do write about, and so instead of the mundane, I will give you the fantastic:

Once, the first week I was living in this city, I was playing the tourist and visiting the Wharf. It’s always crowded there, noisy and washed through with circular currents of unending human motion. At the center of this gyre, an island around which the waves flowed and ran without disturbance, there was a woman, dark hair, dark eyes, an ice cream cone in her hand, fixed in her longitude while everything around her churned and roiled with mad energies. She looked at me, I looked at her, and then I continued on my explorations.

Later that day, after train travels up, around and sometimes through the hills of the city, I was walking past a Thai restaurant on the far end of town, and happened to glance into the window and see the same woman I’d seen at the Wharf, alone at a table, meal not yet arrived, looking back through the glass at me. I almost paused in my tracks, but my momentum had hold of me, and so I wondered at the coincidence, and continued my walk.

The sun was setting into the ocean by the time I’d reached land’s end, and I wanted to touch my feet into the cold water before darkness fell. I took off my shoes and walked through the sand to the water, past lovers sitting on thick driftwood branches, past people warming themselves by small fires built into the sand, and to the place where the waves slipped up onto the land. I let the sea wash over my feet, caressing me, and I stood unmoving while the sun sank lower below the horizon, lower, lower, gone.

In the last few minutes of light before the red and orange glow of the sun faded completely for the evening, I again saw the same woman I’d seen twice before, this time walking along the edge of the surf in my direction, her feet bare, her shoes dangling from her fingers. I held still as she approached.

“Third time is the charm,” she said when she came close enough for speaking. “My name is Bez, and I don’t believe in coincidence.”

There are no coincidences.

Everything happens because it should.

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  1. I stubbornly cling to that very same belief.

  2. I don’t believe in coincidence, either. How wonderful…


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