It started three months ago. I walked into the cafe about a half block from the small publishing company where I work, like I did every day. When I came in, however, I realized my usual barista was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood Claire Richardson. She was taller than me, with neatly braided dirty blonde hair and a T-shirt for a band I hadn’t heard of and grey jeans that seemed well worn, if not vintage. Upon seeing her, I had the immediate feeling that I knew her, despite the fact that we’d never met. Her gaze was warm, comforting, like a fireplace on a cold day.
She didn’t say a word to me as I approached, or even when I greeted her. I don’t know how long we stood in silence looking at each other. I was mesmerized, perplexed by her gaze as I moved towards her. What from afar had seemed to be comfortable immediately became smoldering when I came closer. The warmth turned to full on heat, and I felt like she was analyzing my every movement, judging the core of my being. When I realized we’d just been staring at each other in silence, I recited my usual coffee order - a medium coffee with room for cream - and she nodded, as if she agreed that the order was correct for how she’d assessed me.
As she set to work making it, I noticed the inhuman grace about her, like each step was a dance to music only she could hear. I paid, took my coffee, and left. For the rest of the day, every time my mind wandered from my work, I was in the dimly lit coffee shop under Claire’s intense gaze.
Life continued on, of course. My usual barista was back the next day, and he told me about the new hire. I tried not to ask too many questions, not to seem like I wanted to know every single thing about her. He told me she had very little coffee experience but she’d been good with customers, and I wondered if we were talking about the same strange, silent woman. At work I again could not seem to help from fantasizing about her. Her blue, nearly violet eyes that seemed to contain an inexplicable heat. The all too graceful way she moved. I don’t think she said a single word to me the entire time I had been there.
As if I had willed it for sheer thinking of her, she was there again the next day. This time she smiled softly when she saw me. Again, she ignored my greeting and made no move to ask for my order. Again I stared, gaped really, at her. She wore a soft pink lipstick today, and a dress that hugged her tall figure. Her violet eyes drew me in this time, rather than the immediate heat, and I thought of a frog being slowly boiled alive by the rising heat in a pot, none the wiser. But I knew the heat could kill me - that was the difference. I’d come back and looked for her, had hoped desperately to see her again, despite the strange sick feeling she always seemed to leave me with.
She smiled wider, interrupting my inner monologue, and reached suddenly behind the counter. Silently, she handed me a medium cup of coffee with room for cream. She’d remembered my order - more than that, she’d remembered when I’d come in. I’d have been flattered if I weren’t so afraid. I took the coffee from her, handed her a bill before even hearing my total, and briskly left the shop. I got halfway to work before I noticed that she’d written her number on the paper cup.
I don’t remember texting her, in all honesty. I can’t recall making plans to meet at the park after work, only that the magnetic force that seemed to follow her called me there. The end of my day couldn’t come fast enough, and I wondered idly if she was waiting there for me. The thought filled me equally with excitement and dread. At four o’clock, I could no longer handle the wait and told a bad excuse to my supervisor about picking my nephew up from school. We both knew it was an obvious lie, but I also knew that I rarely called out, rarely even took a sick day. She let me go without a fuss, and I walked briskly to the park, each step bringing more excitement tinged with nervousness.
She was waiting for me, of course. At exactly the bench I’d pictured her at. She looked absolutely serene, and even more strikingly beautiful in the daylight. Beautiful, but odd. As if she’d been somehow photoshopped into reality, like she didn’t belong on a park bench. When I approached she shot up, gently taking my hand and walking alongside me. It took a minute before the shock wore off and I realized that she still hadn’t said a word to me. In fact, I hadn’t said a word to her either.
We walked in comfortable silence, hand in hand, for over two hours. Sometimes one of us would stop to admire some flowers, or pull the other gently towards the lake in the center of the park, but neither of us felt the need to speak. It was almost as if we really did know each other without a single word. Every time I looked up into her violet eyes they were focused on me, and what I thought at first to be judging turned into simple acknowledgment. She knew me, inside and out. Knew my likes and dislikes, knew my hopes and cares and loved ones. She knew me, and she accepted me exactly as I am, and in that knowing I felt that I too, knew her.
As the streetlights illuminated and the sun fell behind the trees I noticed she’d led me gently out of the park. And that was the first night I went home with Claire Richardson. Her house was old, but not in disrepair. It was tidy and small and intimate. As she led me in, hand in hand, I noticed how well curated her home was, as if each object had been hand selected just for her. The hardwood that creaked softly under our weight, the many windows that had a view of her quaint backyard, the walls that were painted bold colors and lined with notes and flyers and posters, too many to count. The lights themselves were dim but candles sat on every surface, and I knew that if she cared to light them the house would glow with light. It smelled everywhere of incense and dried herbs.
She neatly detached her hand from mine to begin the process of lighting candles, and as she did so her blonde hair looked golden in the dim light. Her odd violet eyes flashed up to me, and in an instant she wrapped her arms around my waist and kissed me. A soft, gentle, goodnight kiss that was at once comforting and a little off putting. Her skin was just a bit too cold as it pressed to mine, in contrast to her still flaming eyes. It was something that I don’t think I’d normally recognize so immediately, but because so many things about her were so strange, I took immediate notice. As abruptly as it had begun, it ended, and she pulled away from me. She grasped my shoulder and led me through her doorway, sending me on my way back to my comparatively dreary apartment. I had very little sleep, but when I managed to drift off, I’d dreamt of violet seas that wanted all too much to draw me in.
She wasn’t at the coffee shop the next day. I had the thought to check the park before work, but it seemed odd to check the only other place I’d seen her. An intrusive thought told me that I could always check her house, and I hated thinking it, hated imagining how easy it could be to climb from the tiny backyard, through one of the windows, and…what, ask why she wasn’t at work? That was insane, and I knew it. I trudged through my workday, wishing I knew where she was. I could text her, but that would break the lovely silence we’d cultivated.
When five o’clock finally came around, I all but bolted out of the building. She stood waiting at the front door. It was as if my body knew before my mind that she’d be there, waiting for me just as the day before. Beautiful in a way that told me she just didn’t fit in to her surroundings, a nearly perfect puzzle piece that somehow didn’t belong. She smiled at me again, and it alleviated any suspicions of wrongdoing. How could this gorgeous woman do anything untoward? I took her hand, just as she’d taken mine, and gently led her to my apartment.
While not as stunning as her house, I thought my apartment had a sort of charm. It was a tad new age for my taste - an ex-girlfriend has a habit of buying crystals and woven rugs that still littered my coffee tables and floors. I’d had the forethought to clean the night before, and it had proven correct. She sat delicately on my couch, patting the space next to her. I obliged, and sat beside her, turning on the first movie that popped up on my screen. I think we both knew that the movie was background noise, something to nurture our shared silence. When the movie began, I glanced to her, and she softly rested her head on my shoulder. I felt my arm move around her shoulders, as naturally as if it had acted of it’s own accord. It was a gesture of comfort, of happiness. She fell asleep there, leaning against me.
When it grew late I scooped her up and gently put her in my bed, wrapping blankets around her. As I turned back to leave the room, I felt her hand grasping mine. I picked it up gently, and kissed it. She did not loosen her grip, and in fact began to pull me into bed with her. I fell asleep that night holding her, and awoke the next morning to find she’d already left.
We went on like that, trading houses each day. She left sticky notes covering my walls, letters and recipes and to-do lists. I began to buy books I wanted her to read and filled her bookshelf that had once been used for trinkets. We stayed in together on days off, gardening in her backyard or going on walks or listening to music. Sometimes, when she thought I was asleep or otherwise occupied, she’d go into her living room and gently practice piano. I could go into detail on our day-to-day, but I want to keep the happy memories to myself.
Two weeks ago, it happened. We’d been sitting together, each reading in separate chairs in her living room. The rain outside pounded and there were candles lit all around us. I looked up, and caught her gazing at me, absolutely content. In that moment, I knew that my love for her dwarfed any joy I’d ever felt, and I knew that she felt the same. I shuddered. The joy was…unnatural in its intensity, so much so that I felt a rush of nausea. No living thing should hold such power, should witness such glorious beauty. No living person deserved to. Our beautiful, all encompassing, deafening silence had made us know each other so intimately that I knew with perfect clarity that we experienced these events in unison. Her eyes were intense, and as she looked at me a grim smile began to grow upon her beautiful face. Neither of us said a word, but she reached her unrealistically graceful hand to mine and squeezed it gently, once. And then she opened her mouth slowly, as if any sudden move could scare me away. “I’ll give you a head start,” she whispered.
That was all it took for the game to begin. I bolted out the door and through the pouring rain, thinking quickly on where I could hide. My apartment was out, she’d expect it. I’d need a stronger weapon than I had on hand, which was simply a small knife I used to open boxes. I knew that she’d hunt me down, or I’d hunt her, and eventually one of us would be caught and simply cease to exist. Our love was too pure, too all-knowing to exist, and we both were practical enough to know the true solution: that there just wasn’t space for two perfect halves of anything, or anyone. In my rush to get away, I saw the perfect opportunity - the movie theater where we’d had our fifth date. We’d seen a horror movie and she’d held my hand. I ducked behind the concession counter and waited. She came for me, of course. The door creaked open and I heard her graceful, nearly silent steps up to the counter. I still don’t know what my plan was.
As she approached the counter, I leapt from behind it and grabbed her sopping wet, neatly braided hair. I used it as a handle to slam her face into the counter, and she actually screamed. I hadn’t been expecting that, couldn’t even imagine her screaming. I was so used to our silence that it had become fact rather than choice. Nevertheless, she screamed as I slammed her face into the counter, again and again.
I remember thinking that it couldn’t be possible that so much blood came from one body, and yet there it was. I had expected her to put up a fight, to yell at me, to do something - but she didn’t. I pulled her swollen but still lovely face away from the counter, just barely conscious, and whispered “I love you,” before promptly snapping her neck and ending her misery. The snap it made was heart wrenchingly lovely, as everything she touched had been. It pained me to see that beauty burned out, but I knew as well as I could know anything that had the roles been reversed, she would’ve done the same.
My beauty, my light, had finally gone dark and I was left alone, back into my lightless world. Not knowing what else to do, I scooped her lifeless body into my arms as I had so many months ago, and I carried her back to her home. Our garden had just started to thrive, and it hurt me to dig back up the plants we’d buried together, but I knew that it’s what she would’ve wanted. Burying her took nearly until morning, and I was exhausted by the time the sun had begun to rise.
There was nothing to be done. I showered and got ready for another day at work, deciding to skip coffee for the time being. By the time I came home from work, the news had begun over-dramatizing the blood left on the concession counter from last nights’ argument. The police suspected foul play for obvious reasons but had no idea whom the victim could be at this time. I knew when the samples were tested they’d come back as her, but I was unafraid. I knew Claire hadn’t gone to work in some time, knew she didn’t have many friends. If she had family to speak of, they weren’t close. She’d had a funny way of isolating herself in such a way that this ending truly seemed to fit her - but then I guess the same could be said of me.
That was two weeks ago. Tonight, I felt cooped up all alone inside the space I once shared with Claire and decided to go out on the town. After wandering idly, I found an art gallery having an event and decided to mingle. It was there that I met her - Claire Richardson. She was shorter than me, with dark hair cropped short and paint splattered skinny jeans. I almost wouldn’t have known it was her - that is, until I saw that strange fire yet again behind her emerald eyes. I made a mental note to take things slowly this time, enjoy her company for as long as I could.
I approached her, and she asked if it was my first time going to a gallery opening - she hadn’t seen me around. That was odd. Each time I’d met Claire, she’d greeted me with silence. Nevertheless, I told her truthfully that the art within the gallery spoke to me, and that I’d felt almost called to this gallery opening. It was then that she asked if I knew any of the victims that the paintings were commemorating. She asked me if I’d heard of the serial killer terrorizing young women in the area, and when I hadn’t, she’d told me to stay safe.
As the night progressed, she’d asked if she could walk me home, quoting safety in numbers. The concept was laughable - despite the fact that we both were young women, she was small and wiry, and most likely not carrying any weapon. I knew just from how she looked at me that my safety wasn’t her only objective. I obliged, and we strolled back to my house. After I invited her in for tea, she seemed perplexed, maybe even put off by the posters and notes and flyers that hung on the walls of my apartment. She asked if I’d ever met anyone by the name of Bridgette and said that my home reminded her of something she’d have liked. She’d said she worked briefly with Bridgette at a coffee shop, but Bridgette had stopped showing up. Bridgette had been the victim of the murderer Claire had earlier told me about. Claire left quickly and without comment, and I’m not sure now how to repair our relationship.
How can I reassure Claire that I’ve never met anyone named Bridgette, and that she’s the one I love, have always loved? Why is Claire so upset with me after this fight when we’ve been through so much together?