RETROUVAILLES
Maise Baker
Not long now, she thinks.
Her life is on somewhat of an upward trajectory. Cozy third-floor apartment, newly bought car— she already loves the quaint coffee shop on the corner of her street. Everything’s lining up for once. So what, if she mindlessly swipes through Hinge and deletes then downloads Tinder twice a month?
Not long now until she’s destined to meet someone, Lola hopes. The scaffolding of her life is nearly in place. That’s the way it goes; you work diligently to propitiate some sort of dormant god and eventually life rewards you. Any day now, Lola expects to walk into the coffee shop and accidentally spill her latte on the future love of her life. She wonders, not for the first time, when her turn will come. Now her work life, that could use some refinement.
Lola sees each day through with a smile, vanilla-sweet, repeated ad infinitum. Every day, clock in, clock out. It’s tantamount to Sisyphus’ plight, she reasons, although all Lola has to do is serve each customer with repetitive politeness. Through hurled verbal abuse and meals upturned on the floor, customers snobbishly declare that it’s too early to be mopping around them. Looked at and looked through. A hardened shell crusted over. No one’s getting in. If there’s something wrong, she’ll figure it out all on her own.
Visualising him in her head at first was a way to self-soothe. He had always been with her, from the age of five, to be exact. She hadn’t seen or thought about him in years. He was her best friend. Lately, the smile imprinted on her face was more and more exhausting to hold up, so she imagines a gentle hand coming down on her cheek and a honeyed voice in her ear that says,
‘Easy, tiger, you can get through this. Only another hour and then we can go home, okay?’
He doesn’t have a distinct look, just an ombre shadowy silhouette. A phantasmagorical creation of her mind that appears piecemeal. A muscular hand or a glint in his eyes. Lola knows it’s a man because his features are irrefutable, like the way she has to look up at him when they walk.
On the Uber ride home, when her car had been unavailable all day due to repairs, tears spilled. The last customer of the day had kicked her bucket of hope over. Lola blinks through them to her reflection in the window, conjuring up the familiar nebulous profile of a man, sitting beside her, his thumb stroking hers. Warmth engulfs her, like being wrapped in a snug blanket during a furious flurrying storm.
‘It’s okay, Lola, I’m here. I’m here with you.’
This man says all the right things. Whispers soothing words when she wants to slap a customer for speaking harshly. Softly, puts a hand on her nape when she bites back a scream. Curls firmly around her in bed when she's drained and lonely. Everything she needs. It feels so right, too bad it’s all in her head; Lola could really do with someone in her corner these days.
*
Existing merely as a wisp of smoke that forms a man, he is the only thing getting her through some days, a fact Lola is wholly aware of. If she were braver, she’d seek out a real person, but Lola worries that no one will ever measure up to the guardian she’s created to protect herself.
It helps, though. Like an internal pep talk, except a bit more deranged.
Even her friends observe the effect he has had on her (without knowing what to attribute it to). She’s cheerier at the restaurant, so of course Phoebe mentions it in passing when the venue empties out.
‘Did you see a doctor or something?’ Phoebe asks, pouring beans into the espresso hopper.
‘What do you mean?’ Lola frowns as she glances over.
‘Well, no offence, but a week ago you cried out back because someone spoke a bit harshly to you, and now you’re like… all smiley face. Are you sure you’re, like, doing well?’
Instinctively, she feels his presence linger, a reassuring voice whispering, ‘She’s your friend and she's just concerned, Lola, it’s okay. Really.’
And really, he is just a filter for her rational thoughts. That’s how she justifies it. Probably very complex what she’s doing, psychologically speaking.
*
On one of those sunny yet frigid days, Lola has to draw her puffer jacket tight around her slim frame and burrow her face into a fluffy scarf. Still not quite spring, the trees are barren, crusty maples with spindly branches. All morning, as she wandered aimlessly around the park, she had been thinking about him. Hoping she could somehow meet him. It was still a bad idea.
All things are a bad idea when you’re uncertain of the outcome or don’t understand what you’re really getting into. Not off-brand shampoo bad, which— as one of those listicle articles indicated— is the same stuff, made in the same factory, but without the pretty, familiar packaging.
It’s a ‘revolutionary off-brand skincare’ type of bad idea, where you’re not sure if your skin will blister or scab, or forever invite in UV rays. Impulsive things like that only happen when she’s agitated and nervous. But this time, her unsettled reasoning had created something magical— inexpressible.
Lola wakes one morning, confused by the warm rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed. She blinks and rubs the crusts out of her eyes, but it’s still there, a perfect indent of a body. A larger body.
She must have rolled over in her sleep. Stretched out a bit too wide.
Then there are the shoes by the doorway— polished brown oxfords. Lola curiously freezes in the middle of grabbing her jacket, gazing down at the shoes, so out of place in her one-bedroom apartment. With longing, she snaps the shower curtain open, kitchen knife shakily clutched, but there’s no one there.
Lola imagines the man at her back, sliding a soothing hand down her spine and whispering, ‘You’re safe, you’re safe, love.’
She moves through the motions of her weekend on autopilot. Monotonously, she vacuums the apartment and makes quinoa in the rice cooker. I’m sure cooking for two would be more fulfilling, her head spirals. Lola watches her favourite documentary on the Richat Structure in the Adrar Plateau for the umpteenth time. Could he be obsessed with environmental documentaries and what would his hyper-fixation be?
As the days grow longer, spring halts the rain that sloshes under her feet on her ritual contemplative walks. Chilly skies turn balmy and she trades her winter boots for Mary Janes, strolling through parks with an easy smile. Maybe she’ll grab them a coffee and pastry before she heads home.
*
‘Not to— um… not to sound corny, but you believe in dreams coming true?’
Lola poses the question hesitantly. Across the coffee table, Phoebe spreads a thick layer of honey over toasted ciabatta, knife pausing only for a second.
‘What? Like, manifesting?’
‘Well—’ Lola chews her lip. ‘Sort of. Like, have you ever, um, maybe dreamed something and then— and then you saw it? In real life?’
Phoebe tilts her head to acknowledge the question. ‘I guess if you mean… thinking positively or creating a vision board? I think that’s the same thing.’
Lola’s face feels taut. ‘I suppose.’
It’s not the same thing, but there isn’t a way to hint at it without coming right out and asking. Do you believe it’s possible to conjure something real that you desire with every cell in your body? She wants to ask her directly, but Lola knows that there’s no way to believe something like that without experience. Memories exist and she knows how she feels. A natural, ethereal presence that surrounds her. The man that appears in her peripheral vision, with a tender fleeting look. It is peaceful, but to others, it would be insane.
*
Her apartment is dark and quiet when Lola enters. It no longer feels like the place she moved into one year ago, back when the biggest stressors of her life were choosing colour themes for bath mats and dinnerware. She flicks a light on. There’s an odd depression in her couch where someone must have sat. It looks fresh.
‘Hello Lola.’ The voice from behind her is familiar; she’s heard it before, again and again in her head as she sleeps. A voice from her childhood when they used to roll down grassy open hills, giggling when no one else was around; just the two of them. Lola trembles and turns slowly around, curiosity bleeding into her. Just to see. Just to catch a glimpse. Relief floods her veins.
‘You know why I’m here,’ he affirms. ‘It’s right that you summoned me. Like calls to like. You needed me. I appeared.’
‘I—I d-didn’t ask for th—’
‘Lola. All I want is to make you happy.’ He hums. ‘Give me your hand.’
Lola does without a second thought, analysing the familiar way he takes her hand in his before tracing his thumb over her knuckles.
The hand holding hers releases and slides up to cup her cheek. If she’s the one who created him, she must have extraordinary attention to detail. His palm is warm, and the texture of his fingers are calloused but smooth; maybe he works with his hands. That’s crazy though— not if she’s conjured him from her mind.
‘Did I… did I really create you?’
His hand stills against her cheek.
‘What’s your name?’ she barely croaks.
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve already named me. I’ll always be here for you Lola.’
Something in her starts.
Even more striking up close, his deep brown eyes are trained on her, gentle with a warmth. Broad-shouldered and tall. Tucked into a plaid coat, Lola’s body ignites under his gaze. Like stepping into a hot shower after a snowstorm— her entire body reacted, whether she wanted to or not. Tousled black hair cut into a messy mop, loose waves just covering his ears and dusting his neck. After she examines him, the rest of the world briefly disappears, and it’s just the two of them.
Lola’s eyes linger down the length of his torso and widen when they stop at his feet. Brown oxfords.
She hears him utter her name in her head. Opening her mouth as if to say something, nothing is uttered. Lola admires the man’s lips curving into a small private smile. Still new, like he was working his way into them like a pair of leather boots.
‘I can’t believe you’re real.’
‘Believe it, because however you pull apart your fate, it follows you.’
*
The next morning, her alarm buzzes chirpily. The mattress is cold, the bed perfectly smooth. As her hand grazes the empty side of the bed, she wonders if she dreamt it. Bolting upright, dizzy with disbelief, her heart accelerates in fear. Lola showers sorrowfully and mopes to the coffee shop for a latte.
As she steps up to the counter, Lola does a double-take at the barista, wearing a plaid coat, oxfords polished to a brown shine. He hands her a latte, making sure she takes it directly from his hand, their fingers brushing.
‘But I didn’t—’ Lola protests.
‘For my favourite customer. Take it,’ he says, laughing as though he’s known her for years.
Lola blinks, as a giggle catches in her throat— the same gentle eyes, the same voice, only real this time— grounding and warm.
When he asks her name, her heart thrums quietly, a pulse of recognition and relief.
Love is not made-up; it is tangible. A terrifying possibility that has been thrust upon her. She wants unwavering glances, a will-they-won’t-they kind of love, staring at someone you know so intimately from across the room and knowing exactly what’s running through their head. And here she was, getting this and more, because she conjured her imaginary friend.
An avid reader and writer, Maise Baker is a romance and science fiction author from Sydney. She is currently writing a dystopian novel and loves creating short stories about besotted men who worship the grounds of clueless but resilient women. You will always catch her listening to a Jacob Morgan or Jason Clarke-narrated audiobook.
