Whose Dj Vu? by Guy Duperreault. ~1360 words.

It was with uncomfortable familiarity that I sat down at my spot to sip a new drink, a caff mocha. For reasons that will become clear I, for the first time in as long as I can remember, forwent my usual, my macha latt. And instead of having a white chocolate macadamia nut oversized cookie I chose the lowfat scone on which to nibble. I had hoped that my change would be enough to remake my fate, but as has happened every Thursday for the last three and a half months, the face I saw walking to sit in the table across from me was hers. And as has been our habit our eyes meet hesitantly, and then we both smiled half-smiled! at each other for no obvious reason. She then arranged her self and her things at the table. And, as I have come to more and more fully appreciate with each passing Thursday, each of her gestures has a singular grace, always fresh and immediate. I am every Thursday struck by how nothing about her seems rehearsed or put on. After sitting she turned and looked down to her right and pulled from her purse a tablet. After a few finger flicks and password entry she began to read with total concentration. As she did every Thursday, her left hand unconsciously twirled the curl of black hair that touched her jaw line with the elegance of a perfectly posed haute-couture model. Her well manicured thumb, with short nail and a beautiful plum coloured polish, flicked the electronic pages and I could feel myself becoming entranced and, perversely, a little envious of the tablet being so gently caressed. Even my usual curiosity about what was being read fell into oblivion. But I became entirely and truly hers when she moved to her lightly reddened lips the latt. To be that latt, to be that trifling paper cup and to thus be able feel those lips purse and breathe, move the air! Even as I thought these thoughts their purity of feeling overwhelmed my common sense, and like some insane stalker I actually took to my feet and, as I have done every Thursday for weeks, I walked over to her and with a polite cough, I said 'Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting your reading, but I am fascinated by this new book technology. I cannot see it replacing books, but you You are reading something bookless. May I ask what it is, and why you prefer reading paperless?' Of course I didn't really want to know that, even though bookless reading seems a moral and aesthetic abomination. I of course wanted to ask her her name and, eventually, to take her hand and move it gently to my lips. So, after all these Thursdays, you would think that by now I'd have asked her her name, right? Well, I have asked her! But only after a well judged period of small talk chit chat, in which we laughed at each others' humour, talked about favourites books, ice-cream, movies, TV; 'which-ofs' mochas or latts, tea or coffee, milk or dark chocolate; and the other usual chattables. I have, I think, asked her many times. I hope I have. I think I have, maybe. At least that is what I seem to remember having done. At one time I would have asserted with a blood oath on a stack of religious tomes that I distinctly remembered asking because I just as clearly

remember her telling me her name with a slightly self-conscious laugh. I remember thinking that her name was as beautifully foreign and exotically enticing as her sipping frothy coffee. But, like every other time I seem to remember having asked for and gotten her name, I have forgotten it. I cannot remember it regardless the mental gymnastics I have put my brain through. And this Thursday was no different. And as before I had become hers, but without name, only. And without names, how do we move beyond mere chit chat? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet is fine in books, but calling your love 'she' or 'her' or 'it' does not cut the muster in the real world. Astoundingly enough it had taken me a long while to realize that she did not seem to remember me from one week to the next. As a weak excuse for that lapsed critical intelligent observation, I proffer as an excuse that I am a mere man and am hence 'more giddy and un-firm, wavering' than a woman. I was wholly unable to think coherently after Cupid's arrow had shattered the brain through my heart. But even so, my level of obliviousness has to epitomize love's narcissistic inanity. Every week my soppy pass with her began the same way, and every week this raven haired beauty appeared in all ways to be genuinely surprised at my tongue-tied amateurishness. She has, every single Thursday, blushed ever so slightly and yet enough to cause my legs to lose their strength. No one can fake a blush, not even an actress! I cannot remember her name, and she does not remember me. So it was with that realization that I resolved to make this Thursday different. I needed to confirm that I wasn't stuck in some warped re-make of Groundhog Day. I had enough common sense to know that this was no actual groundhog day because eight weeks ago she cut her hair short enough to have moved the curl she twirled to above her jawline and close to her cheek bone. But I was totally shocked at how much of our days are the same: when looked at closely, other than hair cuts and a change of clothes, we live a virtual groundhog day! And I realized, after having changed my drink and pastry, that that change didn't mean anything. How could it? I chastised myself for being addled by her. Her hair cut must have meant something! But what? Was it enough to confirm that I am not in someone's dog day loop? She and I continued to laugh and chit chat, but I could feel myself becoming hollow as I struggled to keep my reactions fresh. And with that struggle I found myself being overtaken by fear's thoughts. I wondered if I might be dead. Am I dead? What a strange thought, I thought. And then I wondered how it was that I would be able to know not just whether or not I was dead, but whether or not I would be able to know that. Arrrggghh! And that was when I forgot to laugh with her witty chit chat. That was when I failed to notice that my fascination had moved from being with the living to being with thoughts of the dead. That was when the colour of her lips went dull, her nails gauche and her black hair flaccid. I apologized for interrupting her reading, and turned to go back to the too sweet drink I didn't really want, and the too dry and tasteless scone I didn't want either. I sat at my table and opened the newspaper I didn't really want to read to prepare myself for the work I didn't really want to go to do. And the wisp of a

thought, the shadow of a belief flickered across my awareness, that I hoped what I was doing would allow me to stop thinking about death. I looked up, in what seemed like just after a few short minutes had passed, to see that her chair was empty. She was gone, and that I hadn't seen her to say good bye. 'Bye,' I muttered into the air as I lifted the cup to my lips. Good bye. I began to return to my perusal of the paper when I heard her say, 'Good bye,' from behind me. I turned. 'I am leaving for Europe,' she added. My name is Safana.' She handed me a business card, which I took without reading. I watched her turn and leave. Through the glass I watched her step into a taxi and be driven out of my world. The mocha, when next I sipped it, was stone cold. I was late for work, but did not hurry.