Out of Time Part 2 ...Everything is a Dream

I’m sitting in the Wunderbar Café with its Thirties ambiance and I almost feel like I’ve slipped back in time to the era of Gatsby and Hemingway.

I guess that’s the problem with writers—always living in an alternate reality, and today it’s easy to feel like I’ve transitioned somehow to another time.

I often bring along a notepad and jot down some thoughts, especially on days like today when the foggy street is slowly drifting down towards the bay, carrying me along with it.

“Are you a writer?”

The girl in the booth opposite is looking at me, and I assume she’s talking to me. She reminds me of a gangster moll from a film noir.

“Excuse me, did you say something?”

She nods and dreamily blows some blue cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling.

I’m distracted by the retro gesture, and then, it hits me—Madge lets people smoke in here—I don’t know why, and she never gets hassled about it from the bylaw folks either.

“I asked if you were a writer,” the girl says in a soft drawl, that’s not quite southern, but not quite Canadian either.

“No, not a writer exactly,” I reply sheepishly, “unless you count pre-published ramblings and the occasional scholarly article.”

“Then, you’re from the University,” she smiles. “That’s okay—students drop in now and then.”

“I’m not a student,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is I get that a lot—I look younger than my years, and I sense in this case, it’s a liability.

She inhales lazily, sizing me up as she does. “Do you keep a journal?”

I blush, “Something like that—it’s more like random thoughts.”

She’s quite beautiful—long, honey-colored hair, a soft red V-neck sweater and matching lipstick.

Well, there’s something missing from this description. I left out her legs—deliberately, I guess—tried not to notice them tilted elegantly to the side beneath her beige skirt.

There’s also a hint of a smirk on her face and I realize I failed the test. It’s like telling yourself not to look, and of course, you do. This girl has been around though and I’ve lived a pretty sheltered life up until now.

Madge comes by and drops a coffee. “By the way, Hon—that creep that was bothering you is gone. Funny, he usually just hits on gang girls when their boyfriends are in jail. What a low-life! I’ll call you a cab later, if you want.”

“Thanks, Madge, but I’ll be fine.”

When she’s gone, I can’t resist asking, “has someone been bothering you, Miss?”

She looks amused as if her younger brother offered to defend her honor.

“It’s Cyn, and I’m okay, but thanks for asking.”

“You’re welcome—and by the way, I’m Paul—Paul Sanders.”

“Nice to meet you, Paul,” she says in a strange, singsong voice that borders on mocking.

I’m definitely striking out with this one. Welcome to my world, I muse.

But as I sit there, I’m feeling blissfully disconnected from my surroundings as if I’m tipsy from drinking champagne.

Everything seems blurred as if the edges of reality are wrapped in a soft rainbow mist.

I’m slipping into a pleasant dream, and don’t want to stop it—I want to go where this beautiful girl seems to be taking me.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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