I. Malcolm and the Crying Incident
All that Malcolm had left to do was mail the damn thing. Hours of work, painstakingly crafting this, his altogether worthless show of affection: now what remained was the only part that mattered. Chloe slept in Boston...he knew that much. And here, in dank and gloomy London, the sun rising lazily over this damp February morning, Malcolm could think of nothing but her countenance; her visage overpowered his synapses and the terrible fury of her beauty ruthlessly expelled any hint of fatigue in him, eliminating any chance of rest despite classes resuming in a few hours.
As he carefully put his tongue to the envelope, sealed it, and peeled the postage stamp from its packaging, Malcolm felt a rare sensation on his face: a tear made its way from his eye to his cheek and slowly dropped onto the envelope, threatening to smear the return address. Strangely enough, it was only after the tear's descent that Malcolm realized what had provoked it. He had never been more sure of any fact in his life than the one that he suddenly became aware of now: his Venus, his Mona Lisa, his Heloise was most certainly not dreaming of Malcolm. As another tear escaped his clenched eye, he wondered whether she had ever dreamed about him or if he had led himself to foolishly believe his fantasies.
He looked down wearily at the postage stamp on the envelope, which was addressed in sloppy penmanship and blotched ink. It just so happened that FDR was Malcolm's second favorite president. Through another tear, Malcolm smiled weakly. He wondered, as he looked out the window, whether it would be sunny when he awoke in a few hours; the fifteen minute bike ride through the busy city was not the most enjoyable on slick pavement. Chuckling, he kissed the envelope softly and walked to his bed, shaking his head the whole time. He had no idea what to do.
II. Chloe and the Dream
As Chloe's eyes fluttered open reluctantly, she heard the usually pleasant chirping of birds outside her window. This time, however, the birds served as an unwelcome wake-up call on a morning she wished to sleep through. She was not particularly warm nor was she cold, yet a sleek film of sweat covered her smooth skin. As she touched her own arm, she remembered what she had seen in the middle of her sleep last night.
Dreams, to most, were merely indecipherable psychobabble, strings of images that illustrated deeper concerns in the most primitive of symbolisms. To Chloe, dreams were tools that contained advice on life from the subconscious. Her dream last night could not have been clearer. Chloe had sat on the quadrangle of Boston College staring into a pair of dark eyes; the face and body of the eyes' bearer were too blurry to make out. For reasons unknown to the real Chloe, her dream self had proceeded to look away from the piercing pair of eyes and walk in the opposite direction. As she did, the clear and beautiful summer day around her transformed into a rainy and windy night. She looked back and saw a withered figure, whose eyes had become dark and grey; this time Malcolm's features were clearly apparent. As she coldly walked away, she felt Malcolm fall to his knees just as she awoke.
Chloe felt troubled by the dream but dared not call Malcolm. They hadn't spoken since they met in Boston over the winter holiday and, besides, Malcolm had never understood her fascination with dreams. Still as she stumbled, hung over and confused, to her closet and began to undress, she had a throbbing feeling in her heart that her dream had not been far off the mark. She had no idea what to do.
To be continued...
