Dreaming Of You // If I'm Still Dreaming

Jeanne’s POV

Was that Harry…? No, of course it wasn't him. Harry is not here. I’m seeing things. LA is huge. And what would he be doing at a bookshop on a Saturday night? This is a poetry reading for people who prefer a glass of wine with friends, and some candlelight. I know he reads, but he must be getting ready to go clubbing. He has far more fun stuff to do with his life, like hooking up with a blonde model as last weekend, for instance. Yes. One of the downsides of working together… The gossip was unavoidable. Not that I have an issue with it. I mean, we are supposed to be friends. It’s not that I l…

Where is Lotte? I shouldn't have let her get our drinks, as she always entertains herself greeting everyone. She’s not a publicist for nothing. I can only have one glass of wine since I’m driving, but it would be perfect right now. The place is full. I don’t want to continue glancing around, or otherwise I’ll attract some creep to the table. Artsy guys know about social distance as much as any other when it comes to a woman sitting by herself. Why are men like that? Don’t they know what it is to have some private time? Why can’t a woman be alone in public, especially by night? As if enjoying your own company were simply impossible, and just a sign for people to come over to talk to you. It’s not an invitation, folks… I should better listen to my own words and act with coherence then. That drink I accepted in New York was uncalled for, but I was too mad at the entire situation to think straight.

I wanted to tell him. I was ready to tell him everything that night, but along the way something went terribly wrong. Maybe I should have told him specifically we needed to talk. Well, I did try, when he was about to do the lip-synch battle, but I guess it wasn’t the right time. I shouldn’t have waited so long. I shouldn't have waited until New York, but as soon as I learnt about it, it was the perfect excuse to buy time. We were supposed to be alone, away from our daily routines and those dynamics we had fallen into the previous weeks. Because flirting wasn't part of the plan, at all. But flirting is all we seem to do, even if being friends is what we agreed to. And having to play it up for national television didn’t help the fact that there are times this force takes over my body and it feels like my hips are drawn to his. I have to do my best to control myself and not to jump around his neck. Like, the movie night or the following weekend, when he brought the piggy over. That afternoon he was just too sweet. And when he pinned me against the desk, flirting shamelessly was the only way I knew to prevent myself from kissing him. By the time I returned to the office things had cooled down, and he even seemed a bit distant. And since New York he has grown cold towards me. So I couldn’t say it wasn’t a possibility. Maybe we lost our moment,as I feared.

“So,” Charlotte says, sitting on her spot, as she hands me over my glass. I’m a little stunned. I didn’t feel her presence before she sat down, so my heart is racing. “Tell me our plans for tomorrow again.”

“Brunch at that place Erica likes so I can catch my flight to San Francisco in the afternoon,” I speak absentmindedly, taking a large sip of wine. I thought Harry would finally listen to me during the interview. That’s why I told him what I told him. Well, maybe he did. Maybe he did listen to me, and what got lost weren’t our moment, but my mystery…

“It’s a shame you have to travel on your birthday, and sleep in a hotel room because you have to work early on Monday.” Or maybe he got just jealous of Louis, what would be sort of nonsensical… But everything's possible when it comes to Harry. One would think I’d be able to predict him by now, but this is why I fell in love with him in the first place. He can be quite surprising. I realise I’m practically ignoring Lotte, so I shake my head and turn to look at her. I should stop thinking about this.

“I don’t really mind–––I say, and take another sip. When I was younger and more romantic maybe it would have bothered me a bit, but now? Lara is still a baby, so she doesn't understand birthdays.” Lotte nods thoughtfully. I sense she knows I’m not fully here, but she quite understands. “I’m just glad I have a job and a daughter to come home to.” And some caring, discreet friends.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the club later?”

“I am,” I bow my head to her. “I have to get up early to put everything in order. And I don’t want to run into Harry…” Lotte raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Maybe he doesn’t remember–––I can’t prevent myself from speaking, as I don’t seem able to let the issue go–––but a few years ago, around my birthday…” I stop dead. I don’t even want to remember that day. It was so traumatic it may be the reason why I’ve been subconsciously postponing “the talk.” Maybe a chat with Lotte could help me clear my mind. She knows we had something. She picked it up right away after that meeting in which the three of us coincided. It would have been a waste of energy to even try to deny it, so I just downplayed it. She doesn’t know the details. I haven’t told her I loved him and lied to him. And I shouldn’t get her involved. Enough people know about it already; his own mother, much to my regret. “I’m not even sure we are still friends…” I shrug and finish off my wine. To be honest, another one would be great.

“So things are weird between the two of you.” I nod quite a few times, savouring the tangy aftertaste of the wine on my tongue. There’s no denying. We haven’t met often lately though, which is probably better. Him and Erica have been taking Lara to some excursions. It seemed like a good idea when she suggested it. A male presence is always positive for a growing child. And he is great with kids. That is a fact I acknowledge even if the notion hurts me in unsuspected ways. “Will he be there tomorrow?” Lotte asks out of the blue. I can’t help but squint at her, as I drop off my empty glass on the table. I don’t even think he knows it’s my birthday.

“Oh, no–––I assert. Girls only. I thought you knew.”

“It’s so ‘Sex and the City,’” she groans. She’s so silly. But now that she brings up the analogy…

“I know–––I claim jokingly. I’m Miranda.”

“No, you are not––––she scolds me. You are such a Carrie.”

“I’m not.” I shake my head. “It’s not like I’ve been waiting for Mr. Right…”

“Goodnight…” A raspy voice resounds on an amplifier, sending a chill down my spine. The whole place falls into a monumental silence. “My name is Harold, and I’m a habitué at these soirées.” What is this? I automatically glance at Lotte, who shakes her head ‘no’ with emphasis. Did she set me up? This reading was her idea. She lifts her hands in a defensive attitude and I turn to look at the stage, a few metres in front of us. Harry is sitting on a stool, a book tightly gripped on his hands. He pushes his hair behind his ear, and I get this urge to leave. What is he doing here? A habitué? By what force did he become an avid poetry reader? He hasn’t stopped mentioning poets since we met again, even Agustín García Calvo, someone he shouldn’t have to know. “I was going to read Edgar Allan Poe tonight, but I’ve decided to switch to Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, because on this day, four years ago, somebody broke my heart, and I turned into a sour bitch,” he says. The audience loses its coolness for a second and cheers up. Of course. Everybody loves a bit of drama, starting with Harry. “This is the depressive crap I used to read.” I… What with the little attitude? He hasn’t even glanced at the tables once, in which seems a fairly calculated gesture. His body moves like he’s taking a deep breath. I realise I’m holding mine.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers from the
perfumes of spring I ache.
I have forgotten your face, I don’t remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, to my vague memory of
you I am bound.
I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, again I seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

Because of me… I blink several times. I’ve been staring at him the entire time, although he hasn’t removed his sight from the book yet. Does he know I’m here…? What a smart-arse I am. Of course he does. Why would he switch poets if he didn’t? It was him earlier, not a look-alike, and he saw me… How come is this happening? Pablo Neruda is a snotty son-of-a-gun, but his poems are so full of sorrow… I want to, but can’t leave. I have to endure this as the grown adult I am. Harry squirms on his seat, and I shudder. He just passes the pages back and forth, fingertips steadily gliding along, as he looks for the next poem to read. Please, not Poem Twenty. I couldn’t stand Poem Twenty.

“I’m going to skip Poem Twenty,” Harry mutters to the microphone. What…? How did he know I was thinking about it? Is he reading my mind…? “You know, the one that goes ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines of all...’–––he says lifting his head to the public, instantly meeting my eyes–––, and follows ‘Love is so brief, and forgetting is so long…’” My heart aches. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a cliché, so I’m not going to read that one…” No, that’s not what I meant, but why is he telling me this? “We don’t like clichés, isn’t it?” He continues in a wry tone. Does he think I’m a snob…? His eyes burn into mine and I’m so tempted to avert my gaze, but I won’t. That glassy-eyed look of his, the way in which words roll on his tongue, slower than ever, this whole cheeky attitude, can only mean one thing.

“I promise I didn’t know he would be here–––Lotte murmurs, distracting me for a second. This is fate’s doing.” I shot her a lop-sided glare, and return to look at Harry, who just glances down.

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

At least this time I’m breathing. But even if I love his talking voice and missed it so much I can’t enjoy this. The rhythm has become steady, yet mellow, and he seems reluctant to glance up again. He didn’t tell me he loved me too many times, but I brushed it off as if he was doing just this… reading a poem, nothing personal… as if he didn’t really feel it. I needed to think he didn’t to be able to turn him down, and it was the most hurtful thing I did in all my life. Because I wanted his love, I wanted it as I never wanted anything else, but at the same time I just couldn’t accept it.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you I bend to you.
And the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

So this is it. No matter how much I didn’t want it to be true, he hasn’t forgiven me. The resentment in his voice when pronouncing the word “hate” lingers on my body. I can’t blame him. He doesn’t even imagine I’m hurting. And he’s telling me now just because he’s drunk.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel ray,
Stealing my key to true calm.

I can’t even watch him anymore. I turn away, trying to cancel the world, but before I complete my movement, I catch a glimpse of Lotte, who frowns at me in disconcert. I would have preferred not to know. I would have preferred to never learn about this, because it means he thinks I don’t care, because it means he thinks I never cared about him. If he only knew…

In this part of the story I am the one who dies,
The only one, and I will die of love because I love you.
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

“He’s coming this way,” Lotte mutters, bringing me back to reality. I raise my head and see he’s standing right next to our table, black jeans, unpretentious white shirt, haunting gaze. “Hello, Harry–––she tells him in a cheerful tone. Nice performance.”

“Hello, Char,” he slurs, throwing an arm around her neck and bending over to kiss her cheek. In a quick movement he gestures to sit down, and flashing me a confused glimpse Lotte moves aside a bit to share her chair with him. “How’s the more gorgeous publicist of all City of Angels?” He carries on poking his nose on her neck. He barely makes eye contact with me. “Jeanne.” His voice sounds as sharp as a knife.

“We were leaving,” I say, controlling my body not to stand up and do a runner.

“That’s great. I need a lift home.” What?

“Where is Pat?” I retort.

“I don’t know…–––Harry replies, giggling. Somewhere.” He shrugs. Right. I’m getting worked up, and it's not good.

“Let’s go–––Lotte steps in, standing up and pulling from his arm. I’m meeting Jeff and your posse.” Harry doesn’t even twitch.

“I’m too wasted to party–––he talks to her, but turns to look at me with a fake smile. Are you in your French car?” He tilts his head cockily. “I’ll let you drive me.” A chuckle escapes his lips as he stares right into my eyes. What the f…? What is he trying to do? OK, I hurt you, but there’s no need to be an asshole. I can’t expect to have a proper conversation with him in this state, but I can’t flinch either. I nod my head once and start to gather my belongings, ignoring him.

“Are you sure?” Lotte asks me, sounding a bit too concerned for my liking. Harry and I are co-workers. A ride home shouldn’t be a matter to be worried about unless there’s an underlying issue. Don’t sell me out, sister.

“Jeanne can deal with me–––he states in irony, and props his chin on his knuckles, carrying on with the little attitude. Isn’t it, Jeanne?”

I bite my tongue. Of course I can deal with you, buddy. You don’t know. You just don’t know… As it has been proven before, you don’t even imagine what I’m capable of.

–.–.–

Notes

There will be blood.