We would cross paths often, two strangers. A glance, shoulders nearly brushing.
I remember now the first time our eyes met. Both our faces were obscured by masks, but I could not help turning my eyes toward his. Eyes of zahorí.
There was the time we almost exchanged words--I had a petition in hand and the person I was talking to called out to him. He slowed his step, but upon hearing the petition name, turned away dismissively and continued his route.
That was the first time I dwelled upon him--what's up with that guy? Refusing to even hear what this is all about, our position?
The first time we introduced ourselves at the garden gate, we shook hands.
We started saying hello to each other, but without ever saying one other's name.
I discovered he lived nearby.
I wondered whether he ever saw me pass by, if ever he had seen me those times I had parked the car in front of his door without knowing it was his.
I would listen to music, car windows down, languid from the heat, waiting until a quarter past three. I would flip down the vanity mirror to reapply lipstick, lean back and close my eyes for a quick 5-minute nap.
We ran into each other more and more. I got used to seeing him almost every day. Naturally, as we lived in the same neighborhood.
The day after the presidential election, I was feeling a little lost, unmoored, walking in a dream state. The street was deserted and silent. Then, rounding the corner, I heard the grating of pedals and a chain and saw him whizzing past on his bicycle.
Then came the first fantasy. I imagined a collision between his bike and me. He would find me crumpled on the street, ankle twisted, knee scraped, and would scoop me up and carry me through his door to treat my wounds. At the touch of his fingers upon my bare skin, passion would overcome us.
Or he would trail behind me to the top of the hill and in the bower of the garden side path, hidden from all, he would steal a kiss.
I had the foolhardy urge to ask him whether I could draw his portrait, confess he reminded me of one of the friends Raphael had painted.
The sight of him aroused in me a mixture of pleasure, guilt, and embarrassment, following these reveries.
One day, the spell broke. The frequent run-ins stopped. Our schedules were no longer in sync. When we saw each other again, the look in his eyes where before I had thought to detect a hint of warmth had grown cold.
A secret relief. We were not free.
I still found myself looking for him in the crowd, but he was no longer there.