She Felt My Existence

A blue dress, a rainstorm, and the residue of being seen

I dropped off a car rental near a supermarket in a nice part of the city, and a friend promised me a ride was on its way to take me back home. I didn’t trust him, so I bought a box of cookies to distract me from my worries.

I strolled out of the store, already eating a cookie. The sky was rumbling and dark. Rain was starting. A woman in a blue dress walked towards me, and, as she passed, I offered her one. I knew she would decline, but I was curious what her way of going about it would be. She declined politely, smiling and saying, “No, thank you.” I laughed softly afterward.

I saw a homeless man sitting, so I gave the box to him, minus what I ate. I could solve his hunger, but the rain would pour regardless. I sat down at a different table and waited for my ride. That moment earlier was a nice distraction.

As I continued to stress and hope to be in a car before the weather got worse, she blessed my eyes again. She walked past the man eating the cookies—and then me—on her way out of the store. She stopped in front of me on the sidewalk, almost as if she posed for a moment. I admired her—and her dress.

I can’t remember her face exactly, but I knew she was beautiful. The vivid blue hue of her elegant garment took the spotlight.

I can’t see her again in real life. I don’t know her name. I elevate her in my imagination. Maybe it was the dark, painful feelings I felt, contrasted with her warmth.

I could see her soft brunette hair, cut at a medium length. My heart sped up as she came into view. Those things are true. But I imagine she was perfect.

I feel sad that I have seen such beauty and will not re-experience it. Our lack of history is the blank line I fill with possibilities. But… she felt my existence. She knows I was real, and that interaction was felt by the two of us.

When I offered her a cookie, I reminded myself of how children play pretend, and I realized a relationship of any kind with her would be impossible. I couldn’t beg for a hug—let alone a date.

All that’s left is her image and the residue of sweet intoxication. I’m intoxicated.