The Smallest Parallel

Chapter 8

He watched her intently from across the table. A curtain of black curls obscured half of her face as she fidgeted with her fingers. She was as he had remembered: slightly disheveled but beautiful nonetheless. He wondered what she was thinking, and he wanted desperately to ask her. He remembered the battered cover of her journal, the way the weathered pages felt beneath his fingers. He shouldn't have stolen it.

Her eyes darted back and forth between him and the door. He could tell that she was uncomfortable. They hadn't seen each other in so long.

"How are you?" he hoped she couldn't detect the nervousness in his voice.

"Such a strange question isn't it?" she was never one for clear responses. She herself was a puzzle with no picture and mis-matched pieces probably thrown in from other sets. Please excuse my odd analogies; they aren't supposed to make sense.

She smiled from across the table, cradling a cup of tea and a million faded memories. Geoffrey's smile, Geoffrey's kind words, and everything they had and hadn't said. There were, perhaps, a few regrets strewn about.

Geoffrey had spent years trying to read her mind, even though that's ridiculous and completely illogical.

"I called you," she mumbled, "On your birthday."

So, it had been her. Maggie had mentioned a call from a young woman, but he hadn't processed it at the time. He'd been far too busy dealing with ghosts.

"I'm sorry I didn't answer. I had been working late."

"Oh, Geoffrey. Only you would work late on your own birthday. You've always been so silly with your backwards priorities."

Geoffrey frowned. Certainly, she didn't believe that one day of leisure was more important than one's work performance. Marguerite had never understood work or anything practical. She was completely aloof; she had never embraced reality. He admired her for it. He'd admired her for so long for her ability to possess every attribute he desired. She was bold and whimsical, unaware of the responsibilities he'd undertaken. Her fears were bound in fiction while his were all too real. He envied her ability to live such a light existence.

They sat in silence. He was afraid to speak his mind, and her mind was too active to produce a coherent thought. The cafe was emptying, patrons grabbing their coats from the backs of chairs, trying to beat the evening traffic. Geoffrey stared down at his watch. It was four o'clock. They had been sitting like this for an hour. Marguerite shifted in her chair.

The last time they had spoken had been high school graduation, and they had both been through monumental changes and faced life's chosen trials since then. He'd heard about her mother, though he wasn't sure he wanted to tread that path in casual conversation... if they were even capable of conversation. She pulled at the sleeves of her cardigan, one that had belonged to her grandmother. Geoffrey offered a sympathetic smile, though he was sure that she'd never pick up on it.

The rift between them was an abyss and the danger of approaching too quickly was all too real. There were worlds separating them. Geoffrey tried to remember a time during which honesty had been the least of their worries.

Marguerite stood in the sun, light bouncing off of her curls and a smile lighting up her freckled face. Geoffrey approached from the opposite side of the park, confused by her demeanor when she had called him here with an emergency. It had been their junior year of high school, and they hadn't spoken in four days, two hours, and thirty-seven minutes. He had most definitely been counting.

"Happy Birthday Geoffrey!" She hollered as he neared their regular spot beside the tallest tree. Marguerite had lovingly named the tree "Ellen" when they were ten.