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<br><br>I met a girl one Friday night and by Saturday was bereft and didn’t know it.

I thought I had met my soul mate and my heart was foolishly flooded with images of love.

I recall that next morning, I made the usual trip down the Don Valley to the St. Lawrence Market. The leaves were changing and their hues muted in the mist.

<br><br>It was all so beautiful—the autumn, my feelings, the mystery of her. The very thought of her excited me—even more, her transparent face was everywhere.

I bought flowers that day—white freesia—the bedewed, fragile blooms reminded me of her.

I sat in my front room looking over the ravine, and thought of her.

Every song I heard, the autumn russets, the lonely birds—incanted her.

I wondered if she was thinking of me—and thought I could hear her whispering—her soft voice calling my name.

<br><br>By Sunday, I was giddy with the idea of simply being with her—walking through the river of yellow leaves outside my window—or, sitting with lights out, watching the city lights glow like embers of some forgotten fire.

And then came the aching, the longing to see her, and the desire to hear her voice again.

<br><br>She was nowhere to be found on Monday—I was tempted to ask my co-worker, Alison, but refrained—and she was strangely silent on the matter, so I left it.

All week my heart was a festering open wound. I felt a fool and tried not to think of her, but she troubled my dreams and I awoke many times calling her name.

*Jules*. The sound of her name was a summons to my blood.

<br><br>I walked for hours in the rain hoping to banish her fever, but to avail. She had become an obsession and mercilessly held me in her thrall.

I fought the urge to drop by her lecture, or ‘happen’ to run into her in the Hart House dining room—and finally, as October turned to November, I managed to have my feelings more or less under control.

Later that week Alison phoned—there was another party in Rosedale, and would I like to go? Of course, I agreed, no doubt hoping in the back of my mind Jules would be there. She wasn’t. 

<br><br>Afterwards, I persuaded Alison to go for drinks to the same little Village bar—it was a mistake. I just felt more desolate.

Past midnight, I grew morose and sent Alison home in a cab—and stayed on with the intention of drowning my misery alone.

“I missed you at the party.”

I looked up and into the dark eyes and lovely face I had seen every night for the past week before falling asleep.

<br><br> “You were at the party?” I croaked.

“I was late—you left, so I asked where you went—but nobody seemed to know.”

“Then how…”

She sat opposite me in the chair. “Do you really have to ask?”

<br><br>I shrugged. “Where have you been?”

“On the Psychology field trip—didn’t Alison tell you? Usually, we’re at conferences in Quebec for two weeks in January, but this year we had to go in October, or not at all.”

“No, I —I didn’t know,” I stammered.

<br><br>We sat in silence for a few moments as the look in her eyes told me everything.

I finally managed to say it. “I did miss you, Jules. I felt lost.”

She nodded. “I felt that too—took a lot of walks in the rain—listened to a lot of music too.”

“Any 80’s songs?”

“Maybe,” she smiled.



<br>*If you're lost, you can look and you will find me, time after time.*

<br><br><center>© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><br><center>[Photo]( https://fineartamerica.com/featured/misty-fall-day-anne-gifford.htm   )</center>

<br><br><center>Time After Time lyrics by Cyndi Lauper & Rob Hyman</center>


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