“History doesn’t repeat itself, it rhymes.” ~ Mark Twain
I was seated in a red leather chair by the window, a little tired, wearing my usual face marred by time. It startled me when she walked over and seated herself across from me in the lobby there. I glanced up and noticed her staring at me, straight on, as if waiting for me to emerge from wherever I was hiding within myself. When our eyes locked I immediately became aware of two things: first, the feeling that I knew this person from somewhere; second, the acute awareness of those sensations that precede a miracle — the fear, and the rising expectation of that heart-quickening awe.
I became mesmerized, not by her allure, which was considerable, but by something altogether other, a mystical resonance as if we’d met before, long ago in another space of time. Obviously this was not possible, for she wore the sheen of youth and I am very much an older man. It’s disappointing to see the loose flesh beginning to sag from one’s jowls. And this woman still practically a girl, white skin stretched over her slender frame, high cheekbones, dark gleaming eyes, clothed in black chic embellished with scarlet and gold.
My heart felt raw and it brought to mind a strange party I’d attended at a professor’s home on Hawk’s Ridge.
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