Love Story

He is looking for a girl, who probably does not know he exists, or the story that has brought him here. He is standing near the doorway and surveying the golden banquet hall, which is filled with refined bodies in saris and jackets, and beautiful young women with straight hair who never make facial expressions.

My eyes dart around the hall, searching for signs of her. She should stand out like a primrose blooming in the winters; her blond head amidst the black ones; ember eyes, that burn as bright as fire itself but have a certain warmth to them.

And then I see her – crooked nose, small, pretty and determined eyes and sharp features. Her smile is unforgettable within the emotionless faces.

A flood of memories stirs within me. I shake my head. She was too young to remember. But, then again, so was I. Of course, you don’t forget the time when you almost died.

The surge of memories threatens to overwhelm me and I stumble back. My vision blurs and I am forced into the past.

Cold. It’s so cold. So very cold. I am not wearing anything but a shirt and shorts. It is snowing. Each time the snow touches my skin, it screams in protest. I drop the fruits I was trying to sell – they are spoiled either way – and hug my knees.

My body heats up a little, but too little. Death is near. My eleven-year old self knows this. Hypothermia. It is not an uncommon way to die in the winters, but I am afraid. Afraid of what’s to come. I start to sob, but the tears crystalize on my cheeks, making my face even colder. I stop crying.

I scan my surroundings. My vision is blackening and I want to sleep. Just lie down and ease the pain. But I can’t, I know that if I sleep, I will never wake up again. I rest my head against a tree and wait to drift away.

But I don’t. Instead, I see a girl – about five years – walking towards me. I smile, I must be hallucinating. Even in my weakened state, I can make out her features – crooked nose, eyes that seem to burn away the snow and sharp features. Immediately I know that I will never forget her, not with those small, sharp, fiery eyes with determination burning in them, not with her crooked nose which in a strange way makes her look prettier.

She pulls off her jacket with a tug and puts it around me. Thick wool, tough fabric. It will last a long time. It fits me, unsurprisingly. I have always been smaller than most boys, much skinnier and much shorter. Both my mother and father are short and small, so that would explain it. So would the years of being underfed. I stare at her – she must be joking. But her eyes are serious – too serious for a five-year old.

I blink an eye and she is gone. I never got to say thank you. The jacket pushes a surge of warmth into my system, along with a newly found will to live. I steel myself and get up. Making my way towards the house which is all straw, I think of never getting to say thank you, and now how I will never get the chance.

Everything dissolves in black and now I am fourteen again. This is the time when my dad gets a decent job – he had potential and finally someone saw it in him. I am taking a tour of my father’s office. It’s very fancy. White paint coats the walls and the tiles on the floor make it so that our footsteps are soundless. Desks are propped up against the walls of the cabin, each surrounded by wild technology.

As I am marveling at the beauty of the building, which to a boy who has never before seen a television in his life is fascinating, I see her. Her unmistakable ember eyes are on me, lingering for just a moment before flitting away. I stare at her.

As I walk towards her, to express my gratitude, she disappears. I had blinked and she was out of my sight. When I ask my dad about her, he answers that ‘the pretty girl with the ember eyes’, as I described it, is a daughter of one of the rather wealthy employees and that her name is Juliet Flame.

Juliet Flame. I skimmed through telephone numbers, police reports and documents of her life. I know now all about the girl who saved my life. The girl whose fire fueled in me the will to live.

I know she will not remember me. She probably helps people all the time. Why would I be special? But maybe I can start something new, something which wasn’t there before even without our past memories, even with me being about six years elder to her. Maybe I can start a spark which will turn into a flame. But, as I push away the crowd, I realize that she is staring at me.

I hop off the car and shiver. The streets are illuminated by a warm light but they don’t do much for the cold. Even with my jacket, I can feel the wind pierce my skin. I walk to a shop and go in. It is warm. People cast worried glances at me. I know why, they probably think I am a five-year old. I am very small, with chubby cheeks and a playful look in my ember eyes. But I am eleven and I can take care of myself.

Still, my father enters and holds my hand. He is afraid that I will get lost. I won’t. I know this place, this street like the back of my palm.

Today, instead of the usual “Buy me” posters and advertisements, I see on the wall a picture of a giant tree, with large letters in white, “Merry Christmas, and let your spirit shine through!”. I buy a small ball for my brother and a sketchbook for my mother. She likes to draw, just like me.

Then, I slip outside, out of my father’s notice. I know what he likes. Plums. Plums from a certain tree in the yard. As I make way to that tree, I realize that a stranger is sitting there.

Immediately, I know that he is special.

He could look pretty, if he weren’t so skinny. If the dark circles around his eyes disappeared, if his dull blue eyes had some fire in them, if his angular cheekbones were not so shallow. I find myself making my way towards him. He is shivering, of course, he is only wearing shorts and a shirt. I want to do something to help him, not because of his pale skin, not because he looks so fragile. It’s for something else entirely.

Slowly I take off my jacket. To my surprise, I don’t feel cold. I feel warmer. He is smiling. But it’s a smile of a maniac who has just found out that he is crazy. I pat his head, to assure him that I am real. Then, I take the plums and walk out.

As I walk through the streets, I realize that gave the boy only a jacket. I curse myself. He was so frail and thin. I should have give him more, food perhaps. A nice drink. But I only gave him a jacket, which did little to protect me from the cold. It would be like wearing a thin blanket for someone as frozen as him.

I walk away, feeling certain that I will never see him again.

Fast forward three years, I am standing in my father’s office. They have a new employee and it’s up to my father to decide if he can take the job. The new person comes in with a boy at his heels. I gasp. He doesn’t notice me, but I know that he is that same boy. But this time, his blue eyes are sparkling as he drinks in the sight. He is still skinny, but not too frail. I can no more count his ribs and he looks good.

“Juliet”, my father says, “You are staring”

“Who is that?” I ask, pointing to the boy.

“Oh”, my father says, “That’s the son of the new employee” he narrows his eyes “Juliet, I hope you don’t have a crush on him.”

I shake my head vigorously, “Just curious”, but my eyes cling on to him for a second too long.

Then I see him again. We both are adults now. But while I still look too young for my age, he looks much more mature. His eyes have a grim look to them, and he seems to be searching for something. In his hands he holds a blue bag. A lady says something and I laugh nervously, pretending not to see him. I look at the lady and her usually emotionless eyes contain disgust as she walks away.

I stare at him. He seems to be making his way towards something. . . towards me? Then he sees my gaze and my eyes drop down, embarrassed. But they go up again. He comes up to me and holds my hands.

“Care for a dance?” he smiles. For a second, I wonder if he has forgotten about the incident but I dismiss that thought. Do you forget easily a time when you were about to die? Most likely, he thinks that I have forgotten.

“I remember”, I say softly.

“Oh”, he looks confused. Then he reaches into the bag and pulls out an old jacket. Old and dusty, but in good condition. “I believe you forgot something”

I stare at the jacket. It looks small in his hands. “You kept it?” he smiles and says, “How could I not?”

Suddenly, I am in his arms and we are both laughing and dancing. The incident bonds us together, that Christmas night, when I provided him with the fire he needed, and now, he fuels my flame.